Deadly Ancestors: A Bernadette Callahan Mystery (Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Book 5) Read online

  Deadly Ancestors

  A Bernadette Callahan Mystery

  Lyle Nicholson

  Copyright©2020 by Lyle Nicholson

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by EbookEditngPro.

  Book cover design by www.Damonza.com

  ISBN:978-0-9959781-4-0

  Created with Vellum

  1

  48 Hours Ago

  Father Dominic entered the chapel. Two candles flickered on the altar, throwing shadows onto the statue of Jesus Christ above it. A beam of moonlight shone through the stained-glass windows, making a narrow path of light from the doorway.

  He lit a votive candle and walked towards the altar to say his prayers, the old wooden floors creaking as he shuffled forward. This was his speed at seventy-five years old. His body, wracked by arthritis, moved at its own rate; the good Lord would take him in time, but now he would kneel in prayer.

  A sound made him stop. Was that a click he heard? It sounded familiar—but why? He searched his memory for that sound and in a flash of recognition, he knew. A round had been chambered in a gun.

  How long had he been expecting this? He knew they would come; they’d find him. He was thankful for one more moment in prayer before being sent to his everlasting life.

  He moved faster, pushing his old bones forward. Determined to get to the altar to prostrate before the bullet entered his body. To be found there by other monks would be most divine. Father Dominic couldn’t ask for more.

  He reached the altar and started to sink to his knees when the shot rang out. The sound reverberated, bouncing off the wooden pews and making a wave of sound from the front to the back.

  Father Dominic fell forward. His head hit the front of the altar; his arms splayed in one last worship to God. A trickle of blood flowed onto the floor. The moon cast a glow onto the blood as it made its way down the aisle as if it was searching for an exit.

  Dominic waited for his spirit to leave his body, for the light, the angels, the sound of trumpets and the heavens to open. A door slammed, he heard footsteps. Was it Saint Peter? Was someone coming to take him to the pearly gates?

  A hand touched his head. He expelled his breath, “Yes, I’m here Lord, I’m ready.”

  “Father Dominic, it’s Father Frederic, you’ve been hurt. I’ve called the ambulance.”

  “I’m not dead?”

  “No, but you’re losing blood. I’ll put a compress on your head. Please stay still, the ambulance will be here soon.”

  Father Dominic looked up at the altar, the figure of Jesus stared down at him. Was that a frown on his brow? He’d never seen that before. Had he disappointed him? He wasn’t sure…his mind started to fog over. He slipped into unconsciousness to the sound of sirens coming up the hill to the seminary.

  Constable Stewart picked up the call of gunshots at the seminary. A strange call on a cold February night, the seminary was ten kilometers on the outskirts of Red Deer, a small city of one hundred thousand in western Canada, four hours west of the Rocky Mountains and five hours north of Montana. It was an estimate that locals used when driving a car in the summer; in the winter they doubled the time. Gun violence, though rare, was usually confined to downtown where the drug dealers fought over their turf.

  Stewart was a tall muscular man with a dedication to the gym that made his biceps and triceps a thing of wonder to those who’d never spent time there. His other passion was the law and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. His father had been a sergeant and his grandfather an inspector. His red hair and freckles made him look much younger than his late twenties, but no one dared call him ‘kid.’

  The other units and paramedics had arrived at the scene. Stewart was sweeping the north road looking for suspects. Another cruiser was sweeping south. The countryside was flat, with large expanses of farmers’ fields covered in deep snow.

  If he had to leave his car to follow tracks, this was the perfect night for it. A meter of snow lay on the ground, little wind and a full moon. He could find just about anything or anybody in these conditions. He turned his spotlight to high beam and slowed his speed to scan the fields around him.

  Everything was covered in a blanket of snow. The winter wheat had long been harvested and now fields of stubble lay frozen on the ground waiting for the spring and summer heat to bring them back to life. There were few trees; they’d been cut down years ago for crops. The ones that were left were used as property markers or as wind breaks to stop the howling winds that blew in from the Rocky Mountains that could tear off a layer of topsoil in a day.

  Stewart looked at the outside temperature gauge; it read minus twenty centigrade. Damn cold but nothing like last month when a cold front had moved in from the Arctic and pushed the temperature to minus fifty at night.

  Stewart looked out onto the field. Nothing was stirring. Then he saw something moving along the tree line.

  “Is that an animal?” he muttered to himself.

  He watched it move from tree to tree; it ducked behind a large stand of bushes when it saw the police cruiser.

  “That’s no damn animal, no friggin animal moves like that.” He picked up his radio, “This is unit two niner, I got eyes on a person wandering in a field over here on Township Road four two one, just four klicks past Range Road, do you copy?”

  Dispatch copied the message and replied that backup was on the way.

  Stewart stopped the cruiser, letting the engine idle. The figure went still for a moment then started to run across the field

  He switched on his microphone, “This is the police. Stay where you are,” he commanded.

  The figure started to run faster.

  “Of course, that never works,” Stewart said, climbing out of the car. He spoke into his shoulder mike, “Unit two niner in pursuit of suspect on foot.”

  He was going to unlock the shotgun from the dashboard, decided against it, as it would be cumbersome to jump over the barbwire fence in the field with it. He put on his thick gloves and pulled his woolen cap over his ears. He hated chasing people in the winter.

  He launched himself over the fence and trudged through the deep snow. He’d wished he’d time to pull on the snowshoes from the trunk but suspects never gave you that luxury. They ran at the most inconvenient times.

  The figure in the snow was moving slowly, almost as if the effort in the snow was more than he or she could handle. As Stewart caught up to it, he could see it was a man. He’d fallen into the snow and lay on his back with his hands in the air.

  “For the love of god, please don’t shoot me, I’m just an old man lost in the fields.”

  Stewart stood over him, shining his flashlight on him. The man looked a mess; maybe from the effort of walking in the fields, his hair was matted to his head in long gray strands. His face hadn’t seen a razor in days and eyes were rimmed in red. His breath came in long puffs as he exhaled clouds of steam into the icy air.

  “Do you have any weapons on you?” Stewart asked.

  “Of course not, just a pen k
nife,” the man answered in a thick Irish accent.

  “I’m going to check you anyway. Stand up. Can you do that, can you stand?”

  “I’m not dead,” the man answered with indignation in his voice. He stood up and raised his hands in the air.

  Stewart frisked him. He pulled out an object with a bone handle. He felt a small button on the front. He pressed it; a switchblade knife shot out. Its sharp edges gleamed in the moonlight.

  “You’re carrying a switchblade knife, sir. These are illegal in Canada.”

  “I told you it’s only a pen knife. I use it for my own protection and to clean my teeth once in a while.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cahal Callahan is the name. And what’s yours?”

  “Constable Stewart. You want to tell me what you’re doing out here in this field tonight?”

  Cahal looked around. “That’s easy to see, isn’t it? I’m lost. Why else would a man be wandering about on a miserable night like this?”

  “Then why did you run when I hailed you?”

  “You hailed me? On what now did you do that?”

  “On the car’s speaker; it has over one hundred decibels and can be heard over a kilometer away. You didn’t hear it?”

  “I’m an old man, I’m near deaf, I am. Not a young buck like yourself.”

  “Why did you run when you saw my police cruiser lights on?”

  “How am I supposed to know you’re the real police? Here I am in a foreign country, maybe you’re one of those masquerading police types like they have in South America.” He huffed out a breath. “I was running for me life.”

  “This is Canada, Mr. Callahan…”

  “Better safe than sorry, I always say,” Cahal said with a nod.

  They walked back as the other police cruiser came to stop on the road.

  Stewart put Cahal into the back of the cruiser and walked over to the officer. It was Constable Marie Jelenick. She was new to the force and good at her job. In her mid-twenties, she had dark brown eyes and platinum blonde hair with an attitude that said all business. Stewart liked that about her.

  “What have you got there?” Jelenick asked nodding towards the suspect in the cruiser.

  “The guy’s name is Cahal Callahan, says he was lost. Told me as we walked back here that he hitched a ride to the seminary to see one of his old Irish friends then he got lost on the road when he was let out. Oh, and he says he’s related to Detective Bernadette Callahan.”

  Jelenick smiled. “I’m sure Callahan will love that when she gets back from vacation.”

  “Well, that’s all I got from him.”

  Jelenick squinted as she looked into the back of Stewart’s cruiser. “Well, that’s a good story, but the footprints in the snow led from the seminary to this field. I think we’ve got our prime suspect in your car.”

  2

  Detective Bernadette Callahan arrived at the RCMP detachment early. She was in her mid-thirties, taller than average, with red hair, green eyes, and freckles with a bronze skin tone that showed her mix of Irish and Cree heritage. She had a lot to catch up on. Was it two weeks she’d been away? One day seemed to collide with another in her search and rescue of her fiancé in Afghanistan, then there was the stopover in Paris: so nice being there with Chris to reconnect, but here she was back at work. She felt so happy, she almost started to hum a tune.

  She found Jerry Durham, the chief of detectives in his usual place, at his desk with his all-day cup of coffee by his side and a stack of files. Jerry was mid-forties with a receding hairline he valiantly tried to comb into something that looked like hair on top but failed. His body was feeling the pressure of his desk and was letting him know it by growing a paunch on his tall frame that made him look like he could tip over when standing up.

  He motioned for Bernadette to take a seat, pushing several files to one side and sitting back in his chair.

  “Hey, Chief, how’re doing?” Bernadette said as she sat down and sipped her coffee.

  “I’m fine, but, how are you? I’m amazed you’re back at work. I thought you needed more time in Paris. Hell, I would have cashed in my chips and stayed there.”

  Bernadette looked at Durham’s tired eyes. He looked older than his forty-four years, but two kids and police work can age any man, and there was no way he’d ever ‘cash in his chips,’ to leave this.

  “Yeah, Paris was nice, but I was getting chubby on the food, and I got a job to do.”

  Durham looked at the files on his desk. “You sure do. A bunch of drug dealers are having a war over who controls the fentanyl supply in the city.”

  Bernadette shook her head, “Damn, don’t they know the pharmaceutical companies are supposed to do that? Don’t tell me the dealers are muscling in again.”

  “Still with the bad sense of humor.” He pulled two files from the top of the stack. “Take these two; it’s a good place to start. There’s an armed robbery and a drug dealer to chase down.”

  Bernadette took the files and leveled her gaze at Durham, “And…what about the suspect in custody who claims to be my uncle?”

  Durham shook his head. “You know the rules. We can’t have you tainting any testimony with personal conflict. The prosecutor would be all over us, so would the judge.”

  “But his statement is hearsay. I‘ve never heard of an Uncle Cahal Callahan. He could be using this as a way to get around us and pull me off the case.”

  Durham got up from his desk to pour himself a cup of coffee from his personal coffee machine. He’d brought it in because he drank so much of it. He filled his cup and looked at Bernadette. “I don’t know if I can risk having you in the same room with him. He’s in the Remand Center; the judge took his passport and denied him bail.”

  “Who has he got for a lawyer?”

  “Joe Christie. He’s beating the drum to have Cahal released from jail. I don’t think I’ve seen more motions in my life,” the chief said pushing the files to one side.

  He pulled some paper clippings from under the files. “These are a bunch of newspaper headlines from our local paper and some in Ireland. They’re all saying we have an innocent man locked up, and an old one at that.”

  Bernadette scanned the pages. “Looks like the old public opinion poll is working well for Cahal. How about I see him in an unofficial capacity?”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “I leave my badge at my desk and wander over to see if this guy is my uncle.”

  “You promise not to mention the case? If you do, he’ll be sprung from jail in seconds by Christie, and this department will feel the pain and so will you.”

  “I hear you, Chief, I’ll just drop by to see someone as a possible family member, you know the blood thicker than water thing,” Bernadette said. She’d known Joe Christie the defense attorney years back when she was a constable in another province. Back then he was a crusader for his clients. He would be no less for Cahal Callahan. She’d have to watch herself to not cross him.

  Durham threw up his hands. “Okay, go, but if you sign in over there as Detective Callahan by mistake, I’ll hand your ass to you on a platter.”

  “I got it,” Bernadette said getting up and taking the files with her.

  She walked out of the office and over to the serious crimes division room where she worked. Two other detectives, Marsha Evanston and Brad Sawchuck, were busy at their desks.

  Evanston was ten years older than Bernadette. She’d been with the RCMP detachment for five years, pulling herself up the hard way from constable to detective. She was also a girl from the far north, just like Bernadette. Sawchuck was a new addition from Winnipeg; he’d been brought in to form a task group on drug dealers. The way the users were dying on the streets, the dealers were winning.

  Bernadette sidled up to Evanston and stood beside her, dropping a pair of ice hockey tickets on her desk.

  Evanston pulled her head up from her computer screen and looked at the tickets and back to her screen. “Are those
for tonight’s game against the Edmonton Oil Kings?”

  “Yes, they are. I got other plans; thought you might be able to use them.”

  Evanston swept the tickets into her desk drawer. “Okay, you know I love the Red Deer Rebels. I don’t have to kill anyone for these do I? I have to draw the line somewhere.”

  Bernadette smiled, she loved her sense of humor, always dry, always good. “Evans, you know I’d never cause you grief. I just need a peek at the Cahal Callahan file, you know, to get up to speed.”

  “Aw shit, I wish you’d asked me to kill someone. I’d be better off. If the chief finds out my ass is grass and he’s a lawnmower.”

  “Look, I said a peek, I just want to know what they have on him. I’m not on the case, I’m only…an interested party.”

  Evanston reached into her desk and pulled out the file. “Take it to your desk, read it quickly, and bring it back here. You have ten minutes.”

  Bernadette found a desk in the corner, far from the prying eyes of Sawchuck. He claimed he’d transferred to the smaller city of Red Deer to be closer to the Rocky Mountains and fishing, but in the time he’d been there, no one heard him talking of fishing. Other detectives thought he’d been demoted from the big city or had some strange backstory like alimony payments and a bad marriage. The guy didn’t talk much outside of work or go to the pub on Friday. You can’t trust what you don’t know is a detective’s best defense.

  The file had the arresting report of Cahal Callahan, a photocopy of his passport from the Republic of Ireland. Birthplace registered as Kildare on February 12, 1945. He claimed he had two siblings, Aideen Callahan his sister and Dominic Callahan his younger brother, which was Bernadette’s deceased father. He did have the birthdate of her father and his birthplace correct.