The Death in Sioux Lookout Trilogy

Trilogy.

Death in Sioux Lookout

Book one in the Death in Sioux Lookout Trilogy

by Richard Schwindt

"…. look at these lonely houses, each in its own field, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness, which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser."

A. Conan Doyle

Holmes to Watson in The Copper Beeches

Copyright Richard Schwindt, 1994

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-0-9921054-3-3

All characters but one in Death in Sioux Lookout are fictional. Resemblance to anyone, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The one exception is the minor character Dr. Molloy. He is based on a physician practising in Sioux Lookout who has had the sense of humour to let me place him in a piece of fiction. The places are real, except the building that houses the CAS.

Many thanks for comments, assistance, and support: Monika Orzechowska, Corliss Finlayson, Jamie Swift, Vince Caccamo, Keith Brownlee, and Nina Gucciardi

Death in Sioux Lookout was originally published by the Sioux - Hudson Literacy Council.

Introduction to the re-issue of the Death in Sioux Lookout trilogy

In 1989, at age 32, I announced to my wife and six year old daughter that we were moving to Sioux lookout, Ontario, where I was to take up the job of Senior Counsellor at Community Counselling and Addictions Services. This announcement was met with what can charitably be called muted enthusiasm. My wife reluctantly agreed, provided we re-evaluate after two years.

We stayed for sixteen.

Those years were rich, challenging and deeply influenced our lives for the better. We met wonderful people, raised our children and took on the social problems that co-existed with the natural beauty, wild weather and the still extant Northern ethos. Though these years brought out in the best in me I remained a fish out of water.

My father had been raised in Northern Manitoba but I was a city boy. Many people who met us after we arrived all but asked me: what are you doing here? In the end my commitment to the work at hand and willingness to throw myself into the lifestyle earned me the respect of neighbours, clients and colleagues. Heady with having overcome the various obstacles that lay between Scarborough and Sioux Lookout, I felt like I could do anything. That is how I came to invent Chris Allard.

I had always wanted to write a murder mystery and realized that all the ingredients were at hand; an exotic locale, colourful local characters and perhaps, yes, a fish out of water. Chris the disgraced Toronto social worker who suddenly found himself in Sioux Lookout, Ontario was much like me, except for the disgraced part. He was nicely set off by his logical, sceptical and loving wife, Kate. The print editions were printed and sold by the Sioux-Hudson Literacy Council, run at that time by Monika Orzechowska. Her support was invaluable. The response to the book varied predictably; some social workers and family members were appalled, and most residents loved reading fiction set locally. But the real payoff came from mystery lovers who embraced the books with enthusiasm. Twenty years have passed since the first edition arrived; in Sioux Lookout much has changed and much has stayed the same, but I still find all three books transport me back to a time and place I cherish.

"I heard the sighing wind, my ragged breath, dripping tree limbs, a cracking sound then some indistinct voices. I could not make out to whom they belonged but they were only legible for seconds before the soft sounds of the woods were shattered by a gunshot.

I began to stagger back, I hoped towards shore, looking down, trying to retrace my steps through the leafy mud. It wasn't long before I found myself back on the beach not seeing anything through the mist but hearing the sound of Gilbert's boat retreating towards the far shore, leaving me alone.

Well, not quite alone. Looking down again I saw a misshapen bundle floating in the water. There was no mistaking the toupee and Cardin shirt - the bullet hole was new: Dr. Clark Lemmon, erstwhile author of Love and Intimacy, was lying dead in Lac Seul."

Sunday Morning in Thunder Bay

She awoke with the first cold light of dawn. Looking from the undraped window of her apartment she saw yellow leaves flying about in the east wind and in the distance, grain elevators and Lake Freighters on the pale fringes of Lake Superior. Looking down she narrowed her eyes then turned towards the draped body on the bed beside her. At first she did not even remember if it was a man or a woman. Then it stirred and she remembered the nice man she'd picked up at the Ramada Inn. She smiled, a small rueful smile that spoke more of self-disgust than amusement. Pam sat up and stretched her arms over her head then took a few deep breaths to clear her mind. She was past her fortieth birthday but looked almost ten years younger. Her recent sins had made little impact on her youthful appearance, pale clear skin, pug nose, and the sandy hair, falling over her shoulders like a young girl. Looking through the weak light she found a shirt and pulled it over her shoulders, got up and walked softly across the room to the maple desk she had used since childhood. While he continued to sleep she would work. She pulled open the drawer and took out her list, the books, and the letters that were the sum of her project. The one that would redeem her soul: a rather ambitious goal but perfectly realistic, provided she pulled it off.

Hey, come on back to bed. He spoke. The time had come to get rid of him. Pam sighed softly and quickly stuffed all the papers back in the desk. She took another breath and arose, reminding herself there would be plenty of time later to finish.

Part 1: November

A brief history lesson in Scarborough

The airport limousine arrived nearly twenty minutes late, racing up the street into my driveway then honking loudly, even though I was waiting by the door. I had forgotten to call the night before like they always asked, and now paid the penalty. Rushing out the door, I kissed Kate quickly, and then stumbled down the steps with my briefcase and valise. The limo's trunk was already open and the driver stood waiting. I waved quickly to my wife and she waved back.

A damp autumn wind swept down the small crescent dodging minivans and maple saplings. Losing no time I climbed into the lush rear seat of the car and settled in. As the driver backed out the driveway I stole one last regretful look at the unraked leaves scudding across the lawn towards the sidewalk.

Last night I'd retired early but hadn't been able to sleep. So I arose, made a cup of tea in the microwave, and shuffled downstairs to pull my dog-eared History of Scarborough from the shelf. Then I sat and read under the dim light of a single lamp.

In Scarborough, my lifelong home, the process of razing the past had been inclusive; obliterating all but small shards of its heritage and in its place planting seven-elevens, cheap apartment houses where you could buy Crack cocaine, Pizza Huts, condos, and hydro fields that came with garden plots for suburban prisoners. Without this book I would not have believed the land on which my home stood had any history at all.

Back in the early sixties the badge identifying my Boy Scout troop, the fourth Scarborough West, had borne a picture of a colourful Viking ship sailing past the Scarborough Bluffs. According to legend, the ships had somehow navigated this far inland through the St. Lawrence and Lake Ontario, though to what purpose no one knows. Perhaps the Vikings sailed to the mouth of the Rouge River, disembarked and poled a raft into the forest to meet Indians; trading iron goods for salmon. As an impressionable boy I had found this image, probably fictional, vivid and exciting.

Less exciting, but more real, after a few hundred more years passed, was the arrival of David and Mary Thomson. They were the first of the hard-headed Scots settlers who arrived to methodically saw down the trees, conquer the men and beasts who inhabited the land, and begin to scratch out farm plots. In the years that followed, the forests disappeared forever, replaced by farms, vineyards, and small communities with names like Agincourt, Malvern and Scarborough Village that grew, prospered, expanded then vanished into the maw of the metropolitan Toronto region.

In the book sepia photographs show stone-faced farm boys standing in patches of lilies by small creeks that watered the cows and irrigated the fields. And plain wood frame halls where people met, worshipped, feasted and played for a hundred years before they and the buildings disappeared.

My three bedroom yellow brick detached bungalow in north Scarborough was erected in the early seventies on land that had been farmed for generations by the Lamaroux family. My patch of green lawn and sugar maple, and others like it in the immediate surrounding area. There is no evidence there was ever anything else.

I try to imagine what the early settlers did in the darkness and expanse of the forest before civilization arrived and levelled the ground. The farmers and drifters, women and men who loved, suffered, and then died in silence. Of course I fear the worst, obsessed with the vicissitudes of horror, misery and hidden degradation. As appalling as those thoughts are I need them to furnish my own need for a sense of time and place.

But even that fascination began to pall and by one a.m. I'd forced myself to go upstairs and switch off the light. Tomorrow I was going on a trip. On business. To Sioux Lookout.

The Pakistani driver whistled to himself as he turned off the ramp onto the 401 and accelerated towards Pearson airport. We briefly discussed the politics of Islam before I faded away into silence. I was, by now, preoccupied with my fear of flight and, again, I asked myself what desperation had led me to this job in Sioux Lookout.

What terminal? the driver said as we turned onto Dixon road. I looked out at the bleak expanse of roadways, warehouses and hotels that lay ahead. I could already hear the roar of jets lifting off the tarmac, even through the hush of the limo. Someone honked loudly to our side and then pulled out quickly beside us. A yuppie, I think, in a dirty white jaguar; perhaps late for his executive class seat to Singapore or Bangkok.

Two. I said. From what I could see of his face in the rear-view mirror he looked content, weaving his way into the airport labyrinth. I think he was smiling behind that broad moustache. He stopped at the departures deck, just before the cab stand, with a decisive jerk on the brakes. He helped me unload, then as I fumbled with my wallet looked eloquently up at the slash of grey sky overhead and shivered. I gave him a tip and shrugged. I was going to Sioux Lookout where it was presumably colder still.

I hadn't always feared flight. I used to enjoy it. Until last February when our Airbus, returning from Havana, had dropped almost a mile in an air pocket. Amidst the screams of the dying (or soon to be), flying paperbacks, and spilled rum punch I had freaked out, fallen into the aisle, curled into a foetal position and gasped for breath.

Kate, whose embarrassment only subsided days later, commented that my bad conscience and increased drinking went a long way towards explaining this outburst. For months I had refused to even consider launching myself aloft again. If she hadn't threatened me this time I would have turned down Bob Wong's offer out of hand. Well she didn't actually threaten me with anything; it was more a look; but I was still insecure and scared of her finally abandoning me and taking the kids. She was also temporarily unemployed and that made two of us.

A business opportunity

Bob had called one morning while I was listening to Morningside on the radio and asked if my practise was busy these days. I resented this, even though he had no way of knowing up there in his Bloor West office with the solarium, Mensa IQ secretary, leather furniture, and five thousand buck salt water fish tank with the little bitty shark that I hadn't made enough in the last three months to pay the phone bill.

Chris, he said, I've got a job I just can't fit in anywhere. The psychology department at Queens has asked me to give a series of lectures on the new social deviance - pretty prestigious stuff - so when this little job in the north came up, my flexibility was shot.

That's tough, I said, not meaning to sound so sarcastic. What's up?

The CAS in Sioux Lookout has put in a family therapy setup; mirror, video, observation room, what have you.

So?

Really Chris. Are you OK? He didn't wait for an answer. A lady named Kerrin Fujiama called me last week and asked if I could come up and train them. They spent all the dough installing this stuff then realized no one knew how to use it. So now they've got some kind of grant to hire a trainer. You want the job?

Where is Sioux Lookout? I asked.

Up north somewhere; maybe near Muskoka or Georgian Bay. Listen, Chris, I've got an appointment. You want it? A little fresh air might be just what you need.

What's it pay? I heard a sigh at the other end.

They came in well under my per diem but I think you should get five-fifty a day out of them.

When do they want me up there?

And so I agreed. The following day, after Morningside, mostly from idle curiosity, I'd looked on the official Ontario road map, had to flip it over, and only then found Sioux Lookout just above the gas company ad in the little box covering the billion or so square miles of Northwestern Ontario. Sioux Lookout was situated, from what I could discern, about nine hundred miles north and west of Muskoka. I suddenly wanted to back out: the only passage up there would be through the sky. But I had already made the cardinal error of informing Kate and she would no doubt feel that giving up more than fifteen hundred bucks for three days work because of a little flight anxiety was irrational.

I called Ms Fujiama who asked me with much concern in her voice, how soon I could come. Flipping over the blank pages in my datebook, I asked her how soon they could book me a seat on the plane.

Two weeks later a Sikh security guard was running an electric wand over my buttocks chatting about the Maple Leafs prospects with his comrade who was riffling through my briefcase. That indignity over, I pocketed my keys and loose change and walked the mile or so to the departure gate. There I looked out the window at the rows of waiting aircraft. They sat impassively in the rain that had started to fall. Attached to some kind of mechanical intravenous, dwarfed by the airbuses and intercontinental jets sat an ageing DC 9, consigned in its last days to running back and forth between Toronto and Thunder Bay. I sat down glumly to await the boarding call and surreptitiously surveyed my fellow passenger to see if they looked like they were destined to die in the near future.

When they called for us we fell like sheep into line and allowed ourselves to be herded through the gate on-board. I took a seat over the wing and sat quietly listening to the hum of the jet turbines as waves of terror shot through my brain. I forgot everything I'd ever learned about treating anxiety and panic; obviously needing the space in my mind to panic myself. I visualized tragedy; the forlorn faces of Kate and the girls as they received news of my horrible demise; the headlines, the government inquiry, and my bleached cadaver floating along the bottom of Lake Superior.

A man sat down beside me in the aisle seat. A competent looking business man in a grey suit with a briefcase which he opened immediately. He clearly flew every day and would view my cowardice with contempt. This reassured me somehow. I didn't mind being regarded with contempt. This man was clearly a survivor. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes as the engines screamed out; we fishtailed briefly, and then shot forward into the stormy skies. I said my prayers, tensed muscles, strained in my seat and shut my eyes tight as the jet clawed forward through the black clouds and sheets of rain.

I opened my eyes again to the approaching tinkle of the drinks tray. Minutes later, clutching a double scotch in a plastic glass, I was able to resume speculation about the job. Specifically, how sensual the supervisor, Kerrin Fujiama, had sounded on the phone.

My glass emptied itself quickly. I looked up but the steward was trapped aft with a crabby passenger who wanted milk for her baby. Sensual was definitely out this year; no one was sensual, except for Kate - some of the time. More Scotch would help. My eyes closed again.

We struck turbulence, the red overhead seatbelt sign lit up to inform us and the plane began to shake. Someone cleared their throat; my neighbour, the grey-haired suit with the gold Rolex. I looked over. His eyes were red and wide. One hand reached over stiffly and clutched my sleeve. We're going to die, he said. I jerked my hand away and leaned back to contemplate this interesting statement. It settled me considerably and when the pilot announced the coming descent into Thunder Bay I took the news with equanimity.

On some level social workers are always calmed by the distress of others. In my case, as a veteran of nearly twenty years, the distress of a fellow traveller gave rise to a whole library of helpful responses. This of course doesn't explain why I ignored him. That was explained by the fact that despite my ability to recall helpful responses I remained burnt out and corrupt.

I had been appointed department head of Social Work in a Toronto teaching hospital at thirty-five. Seven years later I was thrown out; hailed everywhere as an example of the professions integrity and willingness to punish gross malpractice.

With this charming benediction following me about it was obviously not the optimal time to put up my shingle as a consultant, but I didn't see that I had much choice. I knew I was the only person who would be willing to hire me full time. What I subsequently found out was that no one was willing to take that chance on a contract or part time basis either.

One example: As much as I hated Bob Wong's silver spoon corporate psychology practise, he was one of the few colleagues who still deigned to talk to me after the roof collapsed. Under his gleeful avarice, he was a remarkably decent fellow. He loved living well and resembled a (slightly) smaller Chinese version of a Sumo wrestler. I once had an unworthy thought that he had been too busy motivating executives to notice that I'd been fired. But he had called one quiet afternoon in May and caught me glumly looking up a cake recipe for the kids.

Chris, he began, very formally, I'm at the Harbord Psychiatric Response Unit. They're looking for some input on family treatment of patients with compulsive disorders; I know that's down your alley…

I heard a faint voice in the background: Is that Chris Allard you were talking about? Then Bob's sweatless palm (or so I assume) covered the receiver. A few long minutes later Bob came back on the line and tersely informed me that he would have to call me back. He hadn't; not until the Sioux Lookout job came up. I think he had been deeply embarrassed and lost considerable face.

I also knew from my years working with Bob that he had a carefully concealed vindictive streak.

No doubt the eventual trainer at the Harbord clinic didn't know the difference between a compulsive disorder and gum disease.

The jet touched down with an inelegant thump and the roar of the reverse thrusters knocked me from my reverie. I looked out the window at Thunder Bay.

But I couldn't see anything because of the darkness and falling snow. Looking down at my ticket and checking my watch while we taxied in I saw to my surprise that I had to transfer almost immediately to another plane; onto something called Bearskin Air.

I deseated, deplaned, and destepped then hustled through the clamour and chilling darkness of the tarmac into the terminal. The place was packed with people and hummed with their voices; native mothers with tikinagans, bush workers on their way out somewhere, government officials, businessmen and reuniting Italian families. The Bearskin Air counter was easy to find so I carefully threaded through the crowd to take my place in line. We all faced the same problem: the flight, it seemed, was delayed at the Sioux Lookout end; it would arrive soon, pending the weather.

Where is the bar? I asked, speaking over the heads of those who stood at the front of the line. I would have to consider this connecting flight business further over a drink. The counter attendant directed me towards the far corner of the terminal where a slick overexposed little bar had been awkwardly married to a cafeteria. Perching myself on an aluminium stool I called for a double scotch. I looked up to pay the girl and saw Clark Lemmon, down the opposite end, waving to me with much enthusiasm.

I looked down towards my reflection in the glass overlay. I thought about Kate; how she'd smiled at me last night as we undressed for bed. Her man, her newly resurrected hero, was going into the north woods to earn money to buy food.

Kate had survived the byzantine politics of an International trading firm for ten years, safe in her research position. She was necessary, competent and difficult to replace. Oh well. The new boss came to town with new ideas, and, it seemed, his own personal researcher. By Kate's account, a blonde swimsuit model disguised in a business suit. I didn't think she'd be on the street too long but in the meantime we did have to eat and buy breakfast cereal. I had to work. And at this moment I bitterly cursed that reality. I drained my scotch and looked up.

Clark Lemmon still sat there waving to me over tonic water; no way out, I had to talk to him.

Clark was a tall man with feral eyes and a faint resemblance in profile to Benito Mussolini. He was dressed in an open parka, hood fringed with some kind of fur that managed to highlight his balding dome. His face was twisted into a grotesque rictus of a smile. He was a cynical malign individual, author of a book entitled: Intimacy and Love, a journey into trust; and for many years had been counted one of Toronto's busiest psychologists.

Clark, is that you? I said with false cheer. I wished it wasn't but I did have to own up to the obvious.

Chris! he said heartily, I haven't seen you since they fired you at the hospital. How ya bin?

Oh wonderful, Clark. I love the challenge of adversity. What on earth brings you up here?

Contract with some tribal council in Sioux Lookout, Chris. Big bucks; if you don't charge these guys extra they think you're no good. Wawagitchee - something -or- other. He picked up the sliver of lemon from his tonic and gnawed at it for a moment.

So because you are, in fact, no good you charge them extra high.

Aw Chris, you've changed since you were canned; you never used to have such a sharp tongue. If I want sarcasm I can call my ex-wife. He picked up his drink now, sniffed it and put it down again. So what are you doin' up north?

Job. I said. It disturbed me that Clark and I would be in as small a place as Sioux Lookout at the same time. I wondered faintly if there might be some way to lose him. Doing some training at the CAS.

A voice came on the PA announcing the arrival of the Bearskin flight from Sioux lookout and its imminent departure. Clark bounced to his feet and charged out towards departure gate two with me reluctantly following. We found a curiously empty lounge where a couple of kids in uniforms were collecting tickets by the exit. I handed mine over and stepped out into the cold, shivered spasmodically and looked around in confusion: no plane. As I tried to shut out the desperate clamour of revving propellers I saw a few crop dusters and little private planes; bric a brac of the aviation field.

Clark, undaunted, marched boldly forward; he seemed to know something I didn't. To my astonishment I saw him approach and then board one of the little planes. C'mon sir. said one of the youths from the gate. We want to get airborne shortly. He hustled me along and I found myself chased into the cabin of a fourteen seat Beech craft 99. I fell into a little bucket seat across from Clark and watched with mute horror as the kid strapped himself into the cockpit behind the controls. The other one was sealing the hatch, locking us in. With no visible hesitation the pilot put his hand to the throttle and with a sudden jerk we pushed off.

Tearing my eyes away from this spectacle I shot a glance out the window. The snow continued unabated and we were bouncing our way quickly down towards the main runway. Some things are so horrible that you can only sit back and watch with grim fascination. And then we stood still. Looking forward I saw the co-pilots hand close down gently over the pilots, and then together they engaged the throttle. The turbine engines roared before we shot down the runway like a paperclip leaving a rubber band. I watched the blizzard rush by in almost suspended animation. Then with a quick bump were aloft, lifted into the heavens and struggling upwards.

Looking across the aisle at Clark I found that he was far from terrified and had already opened a back issue of People magazine. As the aircraft continued ascending I could barely hear my own thoughts over the roar of the turbines. We were shaking vigorously, but that gave way to a massive shudder as the plane suddenly banked into the wind. At this angle I briefly saw a break in the cloud cover, the dim forest below, and a quarter moon appear over the wing. As we levelled out I saw Clark flip a page; I turned back to my window but saw only the black of the night sky.

How's the heat back there? said the co-pilot twisting about to face us. A few of the native passengers motioned for him to turn it down. Clark muttered something offensive to himself; I took it to mean that he was cold enough already. Personally, I could feel a ripple of cold sweat trickling down from my armpits towards my groin, but that was more the physiology of terror.

Clark flipped another page, yawned and scratched his crotch through his jeans. I sat back to listen carefully to every rattle and nuance of the engines as we carried on through the night. An undetermined period of time passed before the Beech craft's nose tilted downwards and the pilot spoke, this time over the intercom:

We are commencing our descent into Sioux Lookout; please fasten your seatbelts, we are expecting a little turbulence. My seatbelt was already snugly fastened which was good because otherwise the subsequent heave would surely have thrown me from my seat. I reached out wildly to restore my grip on the armrest and saw that we were now hurtling directly towards the forest and an improbably narrow strip of runway.

We continued to shake and I noted with dismay that the pilot was attempting yet another bank. I felt very cold all of the sudden, but noted Clark had chosen this moment to extract a comb from his pocket and run it though what was left of his hair. I looked up now and saw the pilot wrestling desperately with the controls in a last ditch effort to clear the trees and make the strip.

With one final jump the plane cleared the forest and dropped unceremoniously to the ground. We then taxied briskly up a small hill, turned about once more and stopped flat. I was the first one off the plane and onto the tarmac. I heaved a massive sigh of relief and looked around me.

The airport was situated on the far ridge of a bowl shaped excavation fringed on all sides by ragged stands of coniferous trees. A few lit houses were scattered about along with the detritus of an airport; but no sign of the town itself. I was struck by the silence and this momentarily confused me. People were talking as they jostled for their bags and cars ran past through the parking lot. The wind whistled though from the north. These were sounds. Then, for a very brief moment, they were arrested and I realized that the overlay of sound, the white noise of the city, was absent. Identifiable sounds stood by themselves; discrete and recognizable. Then I heard one more discrete and recognizable sound:

Hey Chris, wanna split a cab? I thought for a moment of the camaraderie travelling businessmen seemed to share. As a social worker, usually working with women, I had little experience with the back slapping lets-get-a-beer mentality. I consoled myself with the thought that this was only superficial compensation for the essential loneliness of men, though at times it looked like more fun than the loneliness I felt without superficial compensations. Still, I wasn't lonely enough to want to share a cab with Clark.

I don't know where I'm going yet, Clark. Why don't you go ahead and I'll make my phone call. The plea fell on deaf ears. Clark stubbornly set down his suitcase and prepared to wait while I found a pay phone and fumbled about for a quarter and the scrap of paper with the number. After a couple of rings a languid and dreamy voice responded. Hi. I said Is that you Kerrin?

Yes, Chris, I'm sorry you caught me a little off guard - how was your flight? Her tone was warm but I sensed hesitation: had I interrupted something? I answered her question. Yes, despite the snow and wind, turbulence and moments of naked terror; and the ultimate arrival in this forsaken backwater; it was a lovely journey, thank you for asking. She told me she had booked me in at the Sunset Inn; and she looked forward to seeing me in the morning. Sorry she couldn't come and get me but it should be easy to get a cab.

Clark, by happy coincidence, was also bound for the Sunset and there seemed no escaping mutual confinement in the taxicab. We found one waiting, a roughed up looking Ford, driven by a guy who looked like he'd walked out of the bush from his trap line this morning. I reluctantly climbed in beside Clark who sat morosely in the dark: he'd finally clued in that I didn't really want to talk to him. With a dry cackle and a nasty lurch the driver set out for town.

You guys from Toronto? he said. I can tell. Yer gonna love it here, beautiful place, Sioux Lookout. Good fishin' but not this time of year. Yep, beautiful place.

Sioux Lookout didn't look too impressive in the dark. The town greeted visitors from the airport with a broken down trailer park that preceded a pastiche of frame houses in varying states of repair. Next, some garages, a video store, block shaped stores and supermarkets, a movie house, and hotel placed in a grid along one side of a wet and shambling main street. On the other side sat the railway and stationhouse; dark, run down with age; and deserted. Back on the other side we passed a crowd of drunks, white and native, staggering out of a bar; the door swung open releasing the sounds of country music and gassy whoops of pleasure. Teenagers in leather jackets and black jeans, too young to get in and drink loitered furtively on the sidewalk.

You can have a great time in Sioux ifya want to, the driver interjected.

We passed the legion hall and turned left at the railway bridge, motored by an empty beach and monument to the war dead, a yellow brick hospital, a shut down fisherman's restaurant and water hangar where a few ghostly floatplanes bobbed up and down in the night wind.

Round the next bend, behind a row of scrubby tamaracks sat a large baby blue frame structure and an expansive parking lot, the Sunset Inn. Clark leaned over me for a better look then tipped when the driver suddenly turned in; I could smell the tonic water on his breath. Shoving him aside I looked over myself. The driver jammed on his brakes and Clark and I fell together once again. This was a whole lot closer than I ever wanted to be to him.

I couldn't help wondering why he was here, aside from the divine mission to plague my life. Toronto's best known psychologist didn't have to come to Sioux Lookout to earn money. Exploiting native people certainly wasn't out of character for Clark but for someone of his transcendent sleaziness there were people to exploit in the city.

Sunset Inn, said the driver, second to none in the north.

A few people and a couple of kids were in the lobby as we entered. The girl at the front desk shot us a glance and looked down again at her copy of the Winnipeg Free Press. I approached and identified myself. Putting down the paper, she checked my reservation on the computer and conceded I did indeed have a room booked. I filled in the form, handed over my Visa card and was rewarded with a key. I now had the advantage over Clark and took a moment to yawn theatrically; dealing proactively with any suggestion he might make to get together for a drink.

Wow, I am bushed. I said. Must be all this fresh air. He just shrugged, looked a little sad, and approached the desk himself. I picked up my valise and vamoosed to my room.

A few minutes later I found myself in a rather functional room. But it was more or Less clean and the cracks painted over. I reached to turn off the lamp beside the bed and looked out the window. Snow was falling.

The phone rang. I automatically reached to stop the jarring noise, fumbled with the receiver for a moment, and answered. Hello, Chris, said Kerrin Fujiama, Are you settled?

Just this minute.

I hope you got a good room. I took one more look around, noting a tear in the curtain. The Sunset really is the best place. There was a pause. Can we talk about tomorrow? I yawned, this time to myself, glanced at my watch and invited her to carry on.

An hour later, closing in on midnight, our conversation ended. Kerrin had provided me with a rundown of tomorrow's events and what I was expected to do. She had received a grant to install a one-way mirror, microphone and video system to aid her CAS team in developing a family therapy programme so workers could counsel their clients more effectively. That much I knew. Then came the problem - no one would use it. They were scared, they were intimidated, they didn't know how, they thought their clients wouldn't like it, they feared it was unethical.

My job, and she politely asked me not to underestimate its difficulty, was to demystify the technology and teach family therapy. Kerrin went on to describe the participants chosen from the office staff to take part in the training and be attendant at tomorrow's lecture. I interrupted there. There was one lecture only and that would take about ten minutes. After that everyone got their hands dirty. I would work with role-plays the first day; after that I wanted live families; lots of them.

She was surprised; I think pleasantly so; and went on to describe the participants. First and foremost, Pamela Warren, programme supervisor from the Ministry of Community and Social Services (COMSOC) in Thunder Bay. She apparently had an unhealthy and, for these parts, uncharacteristic interest in where the Ministry's money was going. She believed in, God forbid, fiscal accountability. Kerrin clearly liked her; she was a social worker, came by frequently, and provided everything was on the level, good about the money. Kerrin warned me to expect the toughest questions from her.

Next came the two protection workers on the team, Gilbert Armstrong and Colin Kowlchuk. Gilbert, a recent grad from the Laurentian School of Social Work, was a member of the nearby Lac Seul Band; young, enthusiastic, rather serious; he was a promising newcomer to the field. Kerrin wanted him to begin using the technology early in his career to give him a leg up in his formative years.

Colin, by contrast, had been around as long as anyone could remember. He had a wealth of experience and good local knowledge but took a very conservative approach to his work, distrusting new ideas - like the video recording equipment. I sensed there was little rapport between the two of them; basically from Kerrin's pained attempts to justify his reluctance to move ahead, and her pointed reference to his lack of professional training.

An intriguing member of the group was architect, Allain Lemaire, the great northern designer. My first glance at Sioux Lookout suggested an absence of great northern designers; so he might be exceptional. He had, apparently designed the building that housed CAS, and remained involved with the staff.

Gilbert's sister, Elizabeth, would be present. She was an administrator at the Sioux Lookout zone hospital. They had a mental health programme considering a live supervision set-up and Elizabeth had been sent along to evaluate its utility, practicality, and to find out if it worked. Kerrin said that she was considered a tough cookie, but otherwise did not know her well.

Rounding out the party for tomorrow was Dr. Margot Laan, consulting physician for Children's Aid; a relative newcomer to Sioux Lookout, but apparently competent and sympathetic. Oh, and I forgot someone. Kerrin suddenly added. Head office in Kenora called today to tell me there had to be an evaluation of your work; so they've hired somebody to come by tomorrow morning and look in.

Sure, I would normally do some kind of evaluation. (For five-fifty a day it would be criminal not to allow them a comment or two.)

I'm sure you know this guy, Chris, he's a very famous psychologist who happened to be…

Good God, really?

"Chris, have you read Love and Intimacy: A journey into trust?"

Kerrin. I groaned. I couldn't conceal my dismay. He's a crook and a fraud; and individually oriented to boot: Clark Lemmon probably hasn't taken the time to sit down with a family in years. I took a moment to collect myself. Is it just for tomorrow? Apparently it was. Kerrin sounded hurt, and her enthusiasm was considerably diminished. We exchanged a few more polite remarks, she said goodbye, and hung up. I yawned and thought about sleep. I removed my clothes, folded them neatly, and lay down under the flannel sheets. As I drifted away it occurred to me that she hadn't said anything about herself.

Chris' first day in the north gets off to a bad start

I awoke to a room bathed in cold light from the uncovered window. I wrapped my arms over my chest and went for a look: a series of dun coloured clouds stretched over Pelican Bay and out over the distant hills. The water was the colour of slate and rippled with whitecaps. It did not beckon for a day at the beach. I stared out for just a few seconds and turned away. The shower was warm, but my clothes stiff and chill.

Down in the restaurant the coffee was hot and the waitress friendly; I nibbled at a bran muffin with margarine and tried to decide how to transport myself downtown. A cab seemed to be the easy way out, but I would miss some of the ambience gleaned from walking the streets. It hadn't seemed too far last night and the exercise would be good for my circulation. .

I regretted the decision to walk as soon as I stepped out the door and faced the onshore breeze. I still had time to change my mind but no cabs were in sight so I determined to stick to the original plan. I began to plod along through the parking lot towards the sidewalk, head down and shivering. It was then I discovered that shivering in the cold, looking down at cement, conveyed little if any ambience and arriving without catching the chilblains would be a more realistic goal.

I heard cries over the wind and looked up. A gang of men, some up to their knees in water, were attempting to haul a floatplane onto shore, presumably for winter. Gulls hovered precariously over their heads hurling down angry bleating noises almost as fast as the men's' obscenities carried up. I kept going and by the time I found Front Street my ears stung and nose ran. Thus impaired I expected difficulty in locating the office. I passed the Legion again, Pro Hardware, the post office, and an abandoned gas station before I realized that getting lost in Sioux Lookout was not on the agenda.

Towering before me sat a structure that could only have been designed by a great northern architect. Clothed in cedar panels, inlaid with granite, it surrounded a street corner, ascending three stories, inviting homage from the surrounding plebeian structures. I was immediately struck by the boldness of design. The architect, whom I would shortly meet, had thrown out all thought of blending his creation with the neighbouring panel boxes and cinderblock palaces and had built one edifice to rule them.

I tried to articulate in my mind what made this building so lovely and finally decided that it had shape. While the rest of the street was cluttered with boxes, squares and rectangles this particular building recalled that hills rolled, trees rose in spires, and lakes lay in cuts and valleys. I sighed once, remembered I was cold and entered.

Kerrin greeted me at the door, smiling warmly and shaking my hand with enthusiasm. She almost yanked me through the corridor into the office, leaving me little time to register her spectacular good looks. With her bright black eyes, dancer's body, and coffee with cream complexion I completely forgot my admiration for the building.

Good to meet you, Chris! she said as we moved Everyone local is here already, we are just waiting on Pam and Dr. Lemmon. Come and let me introduce you. I still felt a little breathless from the cold and conscious that my nose had decided to leak again, but not wanting to sniff. But I followed dumbly, and hoping I didn't look too silly with red cheeks and a runny nose. We entered the bright coffee room, I surreptitiously sniffed, then stepped forward to meet the gang.

First one forward, was Gilbert. He was actually forward and over; a very tall and strong looking man whose handshake was like the brush of a cat's paw. He had long black hair in back, and wore it stiff and punk up front.

Booshoo he said with a smile.

Booshoo I said back, not having a clue what Booshoo meant. He stepped aside to reveal a much shorter guy, forty something, stocky, close cropped with a mottled red face.

Hi. he said, to my relief, but then added So you're the big expert from the city.

I didn't add: So you're the little dope from the sticks, but glanced away in time to see Kerrin cringe, step forward and steer me towards the next introduction.

This time I took another cat's paw from Gilbert's sister, who, more pragmatic than her brother, stuck to hello. She took me all in at a glance and I had a fleeting impression that I was dealing with an astute young woman. She was also tall, but very slim, long black hair bound tightly in the back. She gave way to a woman who was, in contrast to the others, exceptionally fair. Her hair, which fell over her shoulders, could be described as light platinum, and her eyes sky blue. She treated me to a cool smile, and I knew right away, though we'd never met, that she had a secret.

Margot Laan, she said boldly in a strong contralto. Welcome. I hope all these introductions aren't too much for you.

I'm just connecting, I said truthfully, I won't remember any of this later. Is that everyone?

Hold on! said someone from the back, I'm working my way up.

Oh, you haven't met Allain yet. Margot said. A man appeared, an older man, white haired but clearly fit and vibrant. He was carrying, of all things, a lit cigarette, in one hand. He extended the other:

Allain Lemaire he said. I opened my mouth to speak, and then stopped. I wanted to say something about the building but realized I would only gush, which was undignified. He noticed my reticence and bailed me out: Carry on. he said, I know you've a lot to do today. He turned suddenly at the sound of the entrance door banging open, we all did: Clark, sweating and red-faced, despite running in from the cold, burst into the office. He spoke:

Dr. Clark Lemmon, may we proceed? I almost laughed but looked over at Kerrin who face showed some dismay over the arrival of this strange interloper. So I decided to follow Clark's injunction and start. I felt my own composure returning and spoke. Almost immediately the varied faces in the room turned towards me and one interrupted.

Can we start without the Ministry rep? It was Margot again. Kerrin just shrugged and suggested that she would probably be right along. So my mouth opened and I began my lecture on family therapy: it was a living art practised by living people, not something ultimately defined by arcane theories and master practitioners. You began by believing in the healing powers of families and learning to support your colleagues as we taught families to support themselves. And the technology was friendly because we made it that way and now we would stroll over to the viewing room and begin seeing its manifold possibilities.

Everyone turned. I knew I'd caught their attention the minute I didn't set myself up as a master practitioner with an arcane theory. I looked towards the viewing room and was immediately struck by its unusual design: a pillar located in the epicentre of the building. I stepped through the throng and turned the handle to lead the way inside thinking we would enter the viewing room then look through to the interview room where the families sat with the therapist. But the door was locked. This caught everyone by surprise and Gilbert was dispatched to reception for the key. I took the moment to tell people to look inside themselves at their inner fears and anxieties; that confronting these unnecessary fears was the essence of learning.

Gilbert returned, handed me the key, and I fumbled momentarily and turned it in the lock. The room was dark and I could barely see with the exterior light into its curved space. As I stepped in with the crowd following I looked up and saw that the ceiling was high, with a skylight, like a cathedral ceiling. For some reason everyone followed my precedent and entered looking away from the one-way mirror. Someone turned, Kerrin I think, and I heard the small cry that accompanies a sharp intake of breathe. We all swivelled and stared through the looking glass. The room had no furniture; it was almost empty. Almost. Stacked against the far wall, facing us, was the body of a woman. A necktie had been tied round her throat and she was obviously dead by strangulation.

Confusion reigns

I suppose it goes without saying that we didn't see any families that day. No one screamed, which was good, but when I turned away from that bloated purple grin, I saw a lot of white faces behind me. Dr. Laan was the first to act; she muscled out of the room, and came to a quick stop at the locked door to the interview room. Gilbert, who held the set of keys, was right behind her. I heard a low moan and Kerrin's voice whispering: Pam.

I took me several seconds to realize by a process of elimination that Pam must be the corpse. Tears began to flow from her eyes. Colin turned away, arms wrapped around himself like his stomach hurt. He nearly bumped into Elizabeth who was on her way out the door.

I'll call the cops. she said breathlessly. That roused something in me as I watched the show through the mirror. Elizabeth had clearly processed the obvious: we were dealing with murder. And dealing with it badly.

Don't touch anything! I yelled suddenly, to no one in particular. But it was too late. Dr. Laan already had the tie off. Gilbert and now Allain were in there with her helping out. Fingerprints, the position of the body, dust specs and God knows what else, all the forensic stuff, would be messed up beyond repair.

The police arrived so quickly that I wondered if they had been waiting outside the door. But it was a small town and I suppose they probably were seconds away. A man and a woman in OPP uniforms entered and immediately ordered everyone except the doctor into reception; asking them, belatedly, not to touch anything around the crime scene. They were waiting for someone - Sergeant Miles - and just wanted to make sure everyone was away from the victim and accounted for. As we slunk out towards reception I glanced around and realized that we were not all accounted for.

A tall man flung open the front door. Blond, with intense careworn features he wore a uniform same as the other two cops except for the Sergeant stripes. He walked straight past me. I began