I
The case was over before he had even arrived at the scene. The siege, four hours and 33 minutes old, had ended when RCMP special officers stormed 26 Everett Lane and the last of two gunshots fired that night rung throughout the house.
Standing amidst the swarm of media and neighbors blocking the roads and stenciled suburban homes, Sergeant Olsen found the scene to have the appearance of a carnival. Swirling red and blue lights blinked with camera flashes, while anticipated emotions ranging from fright to glee to humorous goading were kept in a steady line as people were either rushed in or told to wait by officers. The summer light had begun to cave to the pressure of twilight and give way to the illuminating whispers of a quiet suburban street that only came out in the hot season.
Olsen pushed past shoulders and heard conversations drift from the immediate “It’s just so tragic, so tragic,” to the pressing “what will happen to her children?” to the near-future “When do you and Bob head out to Seattle?” to the rambunctiousness of teenagers not fully taking in the seriousness of what had occurred.
“Look, his car, fully open.”
“I dare you to hop in.”
“No way, man. Are you crazy.”
“Come on, just a quick hop.”
“Dude, seriously, stop.”
The front of the line, held back by fluorescent yellow tape, teetered far from the house. Reporters stared into cameras, reading and feeding back the same information over and over again. Not much is known. Four people. A single mother and her three children. Gunshots heard. We will stay with this all night. We’ll check back.
Olsen held up his ID and ducked under the yellow tape. A rush of blood to his head dipped and rose, and when his stumble had been caught he saw who was being lead in custody from the house. A little boy, thin, frail, who couldn’t have been more than ten, with silver hair that illuminated the blood on his blue t-shirt.
The crowd erupted and sparks from cameras cracked the night light. Orange, blue, red, and white blended together, painting the crowd in a surreal image. The noise caught Olsen off guard. He held his hands over his ears, but he could feel the ascending sounds of the crowd deep in his stomach. His pupils dilated rapidly and he felt a tinge of poison at the back of his throat.
He tried to shake the feeling of nausea off and in the whirling motion he made contact with the boy. A soft smile, one that bent at the edges of his mouth, cut through the moment at hand. In later descriptions of the scene, testimonies would state that it was one of sorrow, intensity, and depression, but when Olsen caught the eye of the boy, he felt what had to be the only emotion present - one of happiness.
Olsen felt a hand grab his upper arm. He turned to see Sergeant Major Bryan Yan holding him.
“Come on, we don’t want the funny papers to have a field day with a front page photo of officer sick on job, can’t handle pressure,” said Yan as he lead Olsen inside the house.
“You don’t think the papers will be more concerned with boy covered in blood,” said Olsen, sucking air through his teeth as he held his balance on the wall.
“Hmm, doubtful, seeing as the papers won’t be able to publish the photo.”
Olsen slid slightly on the wall and turned towards Yan. “You mean, the boy?”
Yan cut him off. “Officers saw the kid put two bullets in the mother and the daughter. They’re in the next room being processed.”
“Christ,” said Olsen, his eyes wandering to the edge of the door to the next room before quickly turning away. No, not yet, he thought. Wait until the wave has passed. Time, there is always time.
Olsen rubbed his eyes and felt the eyes of Yan on him.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“You taking your medication,” asked Yan with a sense of dread.
“Yes,” answered Olsen, not lying. “There’s just… complications, like with everything.”
Olsen couldn’t tell if Yan was satisfied with the answer, but he shrugged, suggesting they move on.
“I’m going to go and get some water.”
“Sure, you do that.”
Olsen walked up the front staircase. Pictures of family events littered the stairwell. Birthdays, beach days, first haircuts, weddings, and siblings arm in arm, mothers holding babies, and picture days throughout the years. Two photos caught Olsen in particular. In one, a boy and girl, age five and seven, were sitting next to each other. They were at a picnic table with half-eaten hot dogs in front of them and stained lips from red juice. The boy had sandy, blond hair cut into a mushroom while the girl had chesnut, shoulder length curls. They looked happy.
In the next photo down, the boy and girl, the same age, sat together. The boy, his arm around the girl, looked at her with an unusual intensity, while the girl looked off to the side of the camera, her gaze absent. They both had silver hair.
At the top of the stairs, Olsen turned on the hall light, but quickly turned it off. It felt unnatural to have the light on when the owners weren’t home. The thought quickly melted into ‘they would never be home again,’ and he quickly moved down the hall.
Shadows from outside painted puppets along the hallway wall. From outside, people blended into strange creatures from unknown lore. Olsen moved past deformed giants, witches with branches for hands, mountains that shifted and moved, and thousand-faced men. The scene reminded him of games he used to play as a kid. Watching clouds and shadows he would allow nature to dictate what his imagination formed and from it he would tell himself tales. He had lost the ability to do so as he grew older, and now, as he walked down this hallway, he felt haunted.
He drank cold water from the tap and held the shock in his mouth. After drying his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he watched his reflection in the mirror. Caught in the darkness, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the appearance of himself morphing in the blue light. Strange, strange how unfamiliar one can appear in darkness, and wonder if this is how one appears. Over the years, Olsen had grown used to seeing himself in the mirror and photos, but he was still caught off guard by how he looked in the darkness. He wondered if he would always look like a stranger to himself in the dark.
Back downstairs, officers and paramedics moved in and out of the house. A chunk of the crowd had wandered off, but the media still remained. Olsen took a deep breath and walked into the next room. The bodies of the victims had been removed and but a stain of red was all that remained.
The coroner’s office was busy at work combing the room and the house. Men and women in white garb, faces hidden, performing ritual to cleanse the house. Yan was standing to the side, listening to the words of a tall, middle-aged woman and hunched, elderly man.
“Hello, Sergeant Olsen,” said Superintendent Brix, extending a hand.
“Superintendent Brix. Inspector Hurm.” Said Olsen, taking the hand and nodding towards the man.
“Sergeant,” said Hurm. “We were just discussing the media backlash here. There is no doubt that they will be pissed off at the fact that they can’t publish anything about the killer, no doubt at all.”
“Especially seeing as how the photo of the child will be circulating around the web,” said Olsen.
“Yes, and there is nothing the media hates more than not being able to have their hands on something while the public can” continued Hurm.
“This is going to be a disaster, you understand that, don’t you, Sergeant?” said Brix, with a cocked eyebrow.
“Yes,” answered Olsen, only half realizing the situation.
“We will need everyone to pull their weight here. This can’t be swept underneath the rug, it is going to be too big, but it can be dealt with delicately and with iron will. Already we are getting phone calls from MPs regarding how we are going to all pull together on this, seeing as I said, everyone is to pull their weight.”
“I understand,” said Olsen.
“Good,” finished Brix.
Brix turned and shook Yan’s hand. “We will be in touch.”
After Brix and Hurm left, Yan turned to Olsen. “There is going to be a lot of pressure coming from a lot of different sides. Policing, gun-rights, adoption issues, criminal charges against the young. I don’t look forward to this. When government comes back into session, you can bet that this is going to be the first thing on the table. And up until this point, there is going to be review after review of our handling of this.”
Olsen held tongue and waited for Yan to continue, but Yan didn’t look like he wanted to continue, as if the next thing he said would titter what was thought to only be fantasy into reality.
“He shot the mother and daughter only after we had entered the premise. We’re going to look like a bunch of hotheads with our fingers on pulled triggers.”
Yan wiped the sweat from his forehead and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, like a child eagerly waiting for punishment to be delivered.
“Where were you,” asked Yan, not meeting eye contact with Olsen.
Olsen had been waiting for the question. He decided to tell the truth, but to convey it under a blanket of privacy.
“I was following up an old contact.”
Yan hummed. “And it took you five hours to follow up and get here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yan let out a sigh. “I could have used you here. You’ve been big police before; me, I’ve only ever been small town. I should have handled the special forces better. Maybe, I could have done something.”
Olsen placed a hand on Yan’s shoulder.
“They are going to shift the blame a lot until it sticks to the right place. Be prepared for the blame to be shifted our way, but pray that it doesn’t stick.”
“It won’t. Now, where do we move next?”
“The boy has been taken in and the staff psychologist is on the way. His younger sister is still alive, but she is in a state of shock. She has been taken to St. Joseph’s Children’s Wing. The boys are already working on piecing together a background. We have a press conference in an hour.”
“Do you want me there?”
“No, no. I need you to drive out to Toronto. We have attempted to contact next of kin, but it has been difficult. The boy and younger girl were adopted. Their temporary guardian’s kin have been contacted and they are on their way. The boy and girl have an older sister, but it has been difficult to reach her. I want you to head out to Toronto and speak to her, find out any information you can.”
“I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“Good.” Yan looked out the front window of the living room. The last of the swirling blue and red lights had long ago faded. No sign that it had once coated the room in its carnival-like display remaind. No stain, no mark, no sign that justice had ridden in here and been delivered.
“Someone once told me ‘the world is what we make it.’ After this, I don’t know, I wonder who made this world?”