Murder at Sunny Lake

Murder at Sunny Lake – Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The surface of Sunny Lake reflected the early morning sunrise, turning the water into a field of blue diamond dust. He was alone, as he liked to be on mornings like this. It was a time for him and his canoe. He was at peace here. No other boats, no jet skis, no swimmers—not yet. He had felt this way about lakes since he was a little boy. He read about water spirits and sea creatures in myths during English classes at school, and he loved them. He paddled out on the lake and let its calm ripple through his body. The sun warmed his arms and his face. His long hair floated around him like a cloud of sun-brightened silver threads, caressing his face. His eyes were closed. He could feel the water beneath his hands and knew that it was the same water that would hold him in its arms if he fell out of the canoe.

The sun burned away the soft grey fog that hung over the lake. He could see the forested hills reflected in the water. It was a sight that tourists and newcomers paid a lot of money to have, but rarely got up early enough to see. The paddle dipped and swung. A song from his childhood came to his lips as he headed to the shore. “My paddle clean and bright,” he sang. He stopped himself. Was it clean? Or keen? Keen and bright? He was sure he had sung it both ways at day camp.

The glimmer of light reflecting off the stone drew him closer, revealing a murky blob floating just beneath the surface, struggling against the relentless current. Panic surged within him; he recognized what it was from a distance — someone drowning. The memories of countless summers spent on this lake only intensified the urgency. With the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he desperately turned the canoe towards the jetty, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Hey! Hey dude! Hang on! I’m coming!” he screamed with desperation, his paddle slicing through the water in a frantic rhythm. His mind raced, knowing every second counted. As he approached the scene, he tried to steady the canoe, but his trembling hands betrayed his fear. He knew deep down that he might already be too late.

Finally reaching the drowning person, he fought to control his shaky movements. “Hold on, I’m almost there!” he gasped, his voice quivering with distress. The closer he got, the heavier the weight of despair settled upon him. With trembling hands, he steadied the canoe, but the sight before him sent shockwaves through him.

With a surge of determination, he threw caution to the wind and leaped into the water. The bracing grip enveloped him, but his urgency overshadowed any discomfort. Swimming swiftly, he reached the floating body, praying for a miracle as he turned it over to face upwards.

“I can’t lose you. Come on, don’t leave me like this,” he whispered desperately, clinging to hope as he kicked his legs to propel them towards the shore. His arms strained with the weight, but he refused to give up, channeling all his energy into saving the life before him.

Finally reaching the safety of the shore, he heaved the lifeless body onto the ground, panting and gasping for breath. “Come on, come on! Breathe!” he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. He pressed his trembling fingers against the chest, attempting chest compressions despite his limited knowledge of CPR. “Please, please don’t let this be the end.”

He knew the man was dead and began to tear up.

With a shaky exhale, he gently nudged at the lifeless body. “Dude, I’m so sorry,” he stammered, tears welling in his eyes. His cell phone nearly slipped from his quivering grasp as he dialed for help, trying to keep composure in the face of tragedy. The minutes ticked by, but they felt like an eternity.

As he anxiously waited for the emergency operator to pick up, his heart raced, and time seemed to crawl. “911, what’s your emergency?” a voice finally answered on the other end. Struggling to compose himself, he quickly explained the dire situation, providing his location and pleading for immediate assistance.

With a trembling voice, he provided all the crucial details he could remember. The dispatcher assured him that help was on the way, urging him to continue CPR while waiting for the first responders.

He put the phone down on the ground and resumed chest compressions. A mix of relief and anxiety washed over him. He knew that help was coming, but he couldn’t help feeling the weight of sorrow for the person who had lost their life before he could reach them. He silently prayed for the paramedics to arrive swiftly and somehow reverse the irreversible.

As the sound of sirens drew nearer, relief washed over him, but it was bittersweet. He had done all he could, yet the outcome was certain. Gazing at the lifeless body and the waiting paramedics, he couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of responsibility.

“I tried, I really did,” he murmured to himself, tears streaming down his cheeks. He felt an overwhelming mix of sorrow, guilt, and hopefulness, knowing that whatever happened next would be out of his hands. As the paramedics took over, he stepped back, feeling a surge of both relief and lingering dread.

It was just moments before the payments stopped their work. “What? What? It is too late, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s been dead a while. Stay close, okay?”

He nodded then hurriedly dashed back into the water to retrieve his canoe. He dragged it onto the shore, away from the body. Every second felt like an eternity, and exhaustion clawed at him. He grabbed his phone, called his boss to tell him about the incident, and began crying. He had been a camp counselor for years, but had never experienced anything like this.

Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy drove her Trurok Brawler 4×4 to work every day. The lifted Brawler had a boxy exterior and aggressive styling. Its powerful engine could handle any off-road terrain. She was listening to music her last girlfriend hated, and she savoured it. “Everything you do is murder. Everything! I am sure you only ever listen to murder music,” she had said. So Murphy did exactly that: started listening to music by murderers, or about murder. This morning she connected her phone to the Brawler’s BlueTooth system, and the sounds of Leadbelly filled the air.

Murphy followed the winding road, flipping the visor down when she drove into the sun. The vanity mirror was open, and she caught sight of herself. Her undercut blonde hair was streaked with grey, the bags under her blue eyes were more pronounced than last year, and the laugh lines were dangerously close to being crow’s feet. She put on a pair of sunglasses, looked at herself and then snapped the visor up. “You look great in sunglasses,” she said to herself.

Murphy parked, swiped in at the reception desk, and walked up one flight of stairs to the offices of the Homicide Unit. The modern offices were a combination of private and shared spaces designed to facilitate open communication. The space included individual desks, shared workspaces, interview rooms, evidence storage and filing areas.

Each detective except Murphy had a computer with dual monitors. Murphy’s office within the office had an older desk that was not large enough to hold two monitors so she settled for a standard PC. The team desks sat on the outer edge of a U-shaped sectional couch which itself encircled a large glass coffee table. There were two unused desks: one for an unfilled Liaison Officer position and one for any guest from another unit or police force.

Nearby were three mobile white boards, used by the team as link boards to hold information about the current homicide. The boards each had a screen that could be quickly pulled down to cover the information if need be.

The work area was to the right of the entrance, and the interview rooms were to the left. Everything was light and bright and clean, meant to disarm suspects and welcome witnesses. Murphy made it her mission to promote a culture of respect and professionalism with co-workers, grieving families, witnesses, and suspects.

As the early morning sunlight filtered through the office window, Murphy found herself sipping a steaming cup of instant coffee, eagerly diving into the overnight reports before her fellow members of the murder team arrived. She crossed her fingers, hoping for a day that wouldn’t be swamped with an overwhelming workload, giving her a chance to catch up on the dreaded paperwork.

The Homicide Unit she oversaw comprised a tight-knit group of four, entrusted with covering the vast expanse of the Municipality of Muskoka. Though physically extensive, it was a mosaic of quaint small towns, sprawling rural farmland, and serene lakes that brought a unique set of challenges and mysteries.

Compared to her previous posting in the bustling city of Ottawa, Muskoka offered a refreshing escape from the labyrinth of politicians meddling in investigations and the relentless scrutiny of the media. It was one of the reasons she had made the bold decision to transfer here — to break free from the shackles of political pressure and media stress that had gripped her life before.

She recalled the exasperation of having the mayor breathing down her neck, the frustration of newspapers misquoting her, and the irritation of podcasters unremittingly mocking her every move. It was enough to make anyone want to escape the unceasing spotlight and seek solace away from that all-consuming anxiety.

In Muskoka, she could breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that her team’s pursuit of justice would not be overshadowed by political agendas or media sensationalism. Here, the focus was solely on unraveling mysteries and bringing closure to grieving families.

Muskoka had become her sanctuary, where she could embrace the challenge of solving crimes, free from the suffocating pressures that once threatened to consume her passion for justice.

She was absentmindedly stirring the coffee when the phone rang. She read another paragraph of the report in front of her before answering the call. “Detective Inspector Murphy,” she replied as she tapped the spoon on the side of the cup.

“Ma’am, we’ve got a body. Probably murder.”

She took a sip of coffee and waited, but the rest of the information was not forthcoming. “Who, what, where, when?” A whisper of an Irish accent came through in her words.

“Unknown male, we can’t identify his age yet. Found off shore in Sunny Lake just past the Nature Centre. A canoeist spotted him. The Forensic Unit is already on site.”

“Sunny Lake? Go on.”

“The body looked kind of fresh, so it hasn’t been in the water for long. There is a rope around the neck.”

Rope around the neck. Yes, probably a murder, Murphy sarcastically thought to herself. So much for her quiet day. She took another sip of coffee before replying and calmly said, “Call DSS Girard and tell him I’ll meet him there.” Before leaving her office, Murphy drained the rest of her coffee and finished reading the report on her desk.

Sunny Lake shimmered as a prime fishing spot, cherished by the locals for generations. There had been a big stink raised when Franklin’s Fishin’ Adventures tried to open a store on the water’s edge. Some of the older residents objected to the chain store opening, drawing even more visitors to the area. They wanted to keep the place clear of tourists, outsiders, and all their chaos.

Without tourists and cottagers, the municipal population of just over 500,000 people could never support the massive infrastructure and government system they currently enjoyed. Highways cut through the area, but it would have withered long ago, if not for the support from the ultra rich and their picturesque homes. Sunny Lake remained at a crossroads between embracing new opportunities and fiercely safeguarding its treasured identity, leaving the future of the community hanging in the balance.

Murphy headed out. She eventually turned onto Lake Kelbowek Road and drove on. The road led to Sunny Lake Corners, a small cluster of houses that were next to the single-lane road. There was a United church, a diner, and a country-house hotel cum sports store, of sorts, where they sold lures, worms, and cheap fishing rods. At last, after the bend in the road, a magnificent clear vista of Sunny Lake opened up in front of Murphy; this morning it was gleaming in all its glory. Sunny Lake was long and thin. The northern end was lightly developed, and the southern end was in a conservation area. The Sunny Lake Nature Centre and day camp were just outside the conservation area.

The paved road ended in a parking lot with an area of grass on one side and a few scattered picnic tables on the other. A noticeboard showed a map with trails and walking routes around the lake, and further down was the Nature Centre. It functioned as a trailhead, day camp and art gallery.

Murphy parked by the noticeboard and changed from shoes to hiking boots before setting off up the path to the centre.

Detective Staff Sergeant Adam Girard had already arrived and parked his car under a tree near the building. He wore his usual suit and tie with polished business shoes, looking out of place among the trees and goose shit on the ground. He was standing next to a pale, lanky man wearing khaki shorts and a khaki Sunny Lake Nature Centre t-shirt. His bright lime trail-running shoes were his only source of colour.

Murphy loved working with Girard. He was a skilled detective, and she adored his family.

“I appreciate your coming here so quickly, Adam, not sure about your footwear, though,” Murphy said playfully as she waved her foot at him. “Who do we have here?” she asked.

Girard smiled broadly. “Boss, great to see you. It’s been such a long time. At least six, maybe seven, hours.” Girard was tall, almost six foot three, with a slender build. His height gave him a unique vantage point when surveying any crime scene. “This is Andrew Short, the director of the Sunny Lake Nature Centre. One of his instructors found the body.”

Murphy offered her hand, which Short took reluctantly. “I’d like to speak with the instructor? What’s the name?” Murphy asked.,

“Rodney Taylor. He is a bit shaken up.”

“Let’s give him a moment, then. Adam, can we make out what’s happening at the scene from here?”

“No,” Girard said. The locals called this Long Lake, on account of it being narrow and long. Even from where they were at midpoint, one could not see from one end to the other.

“This way.” Short headed down a trail. It was a long enough walk, pleasant in the summer shade, but Murphy wondered if maybe she’d have been able to drive here and save Girard’s shoes.

Short brought them to an open area filled with a rack of old canoes, paddles, lifejackets, and a jetty constructed of concrete. It was the beginning of the day camp. Short’s feet dragged along the ground, kicking up dust and tree litter as he walked. He wanted to get the situation resolved quickly and get the hell out of there.

“All good,” he muttered, kicking the ground with the toe of his shoe as he anxiously reassured himself. The breeze had dropped to nothing, and the air was hot and close and smelled of baked mud. A young grackle let out a series of insistent screeches.

“You’re right,” said Murphy. She looked at the line of trees, which stood tall and purposeful down the bank. “All good. It looks like a great camping place. A couple of cabins, some canoes. Probably a great little getaway for kids. That cabin looks pretty old.” Murphy walked over. The door was ajar and swung back and forth in the breeze. An old beer can rattled when the door tapped on it. Murphy frowned. “Beer?”

“Every two-week day camp session has one overnight weekend. This is where our campers stay overnight. Just a small area, a few cabins, some outhouses, that kind of thing,” Short said. “But teenagers figured out they could sneak in for parties on the weekends we don’t use it. It’s hard to catch them. It is getting pretty messy up here. Lots of damage to the trees and cabins and whatnot. We don’t use this cabin too often.”

Murphy pushed open the door with her foot. It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. No one had attempted to clear the mess inside. There was a broken desk, a few chairs tossed around, and a sofa slashed into ribbons and the stuffing pulled out. Caused by animals or teenagers, she wasn’t sure which. She noticed every window was broken. The piles of beer cans, alcohol bottles and cigarette butts spoke volumes. She wondered if her victim had been here before ending up in the lake.

“The body is down there,” Short said.

Murphy smiled and nodded and glanced at Girard. “Mr. Short, I don’t suppose you know when the cabin was last used?”

“We used it a couple of weeks ago, but no one has been here since. We were hoping to let the campers stay overnight next weekend. When we built the Sunny Lake Centre, we tore down most of the existing cabins. Government said get rid of them, the kids were trespassing too much on Crown Land. We didn’t want the kids hanging out here, maybe getting hurt or drowning. So, we took a lot down.”

“I remember there was a big party August of last year, a big celebration. End of summer, just before school started.” Girard said. “Someone saw the lights from the road and called the police. A fire pit and tons of beer. My neighbour’s son was among them. I remember he was pretty angry about it. But that’s how it goes, eh? I mean, what teenager doesn’t love that kind of late August night?”

Murphy nodded. “Call Cleo, find out if there were any related complaints from last night, maybe the night before. Ask her to go through any missing persons’ reports from, say, a week ago.” Girard nodded and pulled out his cell phone. Murphy looked around while Girard was on the phone, but paid attention when he started speaking to her.

“Boss, Hamilton says she’s not too happy that we don’t have an age on the body,” Girard reported.

Murphy walked over to Girard and leaned into the phone. “Detective work is so hard,” she whined jokingly. “Come on DC Hamilton, how many missing men could there be?” She ruined away from the call and spoke with the camp director. “Mr. Short —”

“Call me Andrew,” he replied quickly.

Murphy nodded. “Andrew, how deep is the water here?”

“It’s around six metres, but there’s a big drop-off, and it doubles that in the middle. There’s no water level management in place.”

“Thanks. We’ll see how the forensic team wants to play it,” she said to Girard. She couldn’t imagine Dr. Chen, the pathologist, out on a boat. He liked the control and predictability of his lab.

“Will you wait here until Dr. Chen is ready for us, please, Adam? I’ll see if Mr. Taylor’s up to a few questions. Andrew, if you wouldn’t mind…” Murphy said as she gestured back toward the Centre. Short seemed at first not to have heard. He coiled up his lanyard carefully and slipped it into his pocket, then straightened his back as though he had just realized something important and walked off, quickly, toward the Centre.

Rodney Taylor was in his late teens. His face was drained of colour, a remarkable feat for someone who spent so much time on the water. He sat on the sofa in the Nature Centre common room, clutching a tea in both hands. There was an untouched cookie on the plate in front of him. He looked up, startled, and some of the tea spilled onto the floor.

“Ooh, are you going to eat that cookie?” Murphy joked, hoping to lighten the mood. It didn’t work, and Rodney did nothing more than push the plate toward Murphy. “I’m Detective Inspector Caitlin Murphy of the Muskoka Municipal Police. Here to talk to you about what you saw.”

“I’m so glad none of the kids saw it,” Rodney said.

Murphy gave a wry smile and thought to herself, you are a kid and you saw it. She asked, “Would they normally be with you?”

“No. I am the water counsellor.” He gave a soft laugh. “I don’t bring kids out so early in the morning, so far away from shore.”

“How long have you been working here? What do you do outside of camp?” She wanted him more relaxed before she started on the tough questions.

“This is my fourth season. I want to do kinesiology at university. Canoeing’s my passion. I compete. I’m hoping for an Olympic trial,” he said, his hand now steadier as he set down his mug on a low table. He glanced at Murphy, then looked down at the purple patterned carpet and noticed the damp patch on it and nudged it in with his toe. “It’s okay here. Andy could do with being a bit more laid back, but as he always says, he’s got a lot resting on this place,” he said casually.

“Could you take me through exactly what happened?”

“I was out on a practice run, just me and the lake. The water looked so calm and clear, but it’s changing with climate change, getting shallower every summer. Anyway, I had gone part of the way, doing my thing, paddling back — just eight minutes up, eight minutes back, that’s all. Then, I saw something floating, and at first, I thought it was just some garbage. I was ready to pick it up, you know, because I care about the environment and the lake. But as I got closer, my heart sank. It hit me like a tidal wave — it was a body.”

His mind still haunted by the distressing discovery, he shifted uneasily. The weight of the recent events lingered in his thoughts, causing his body to fidget with restlessness. He sat straighter, trying to find comfort that eluded him, as the memory of the lifeless body bobbing in the water continued to gnaw at him.

“God, I couldn’t believe it. My stomach just… I had to fight back the urge to vomit. But I pulled him out, I got him to land and tried CPR. It did not work.”

“Did you see anyone else? Or anything else you want to tell me about?” Murphy asked.

“No. I called 911. I called Andy. Then I puked. And I came back to the Centre as fast as I could.”

“Ok, thank you Mr. Taylor. We will make sure you get home safely.”

“So, I can go home? I don’t have to ever see that again?” Rodney asked, his voice still shaky.

“Never again. I’ll have patrol take you home. A Family Liaison Officer will contact you. Andrew, does the Centre had CCTV?”

“No. Maybe it’s time we got some,” Andrew mumbled.

The low rumble of the old van engine shook the peace of the afternoon, and Murphy went outside to greet the man. Chen was in such a state that it took him three circuits of the gravel before he could pull up close to the car and stop with a clunk. The tires threw up a small dust cloud as they spun on the gritty road surface. He jumped out, leaving the door open. “DI Murphy!”

“Hi!” she answered, waving her hand to attract his attention. Chen marched toward her with a purposeful, rolling gait.

She thought from Chen’s tone that something exciting had happened. The pathologist walked past her, leaned against a tree and lit a cigarette. “I had to buy more smokes. Ahh, smoking is a wonderful addiction,” he said as he exhaled a stream of smoke into the air above him, expanding his chest and squaring his shoulders like a soldier at attention. “I know you don’t approve, Murphy, but it calms me.”

Murphy screwed up her face, watching as he constantly moved from side to side, watching as his hands shook. She wondered how much worse it would be if he did stop smoking. “Let’s get back to the scene, shall we? Scene.” Murphy asked as she extended a hand in the body’s direction. She and Chen went quickly. She joined Girard while Chen joined his forensic team members.

The pathologist glanced at the progress his team was making before turning to Murphy and Girard. A subtle gesture, his hand found its way into his trouser pocket — perhaps a habit picked up from those dramatic television crime shows, Murphy mused. Chen seemed to have embraced a new style, opting for a white linen suit and a Panama hat, having set aside his beloved Hawaiian shirts last year, fearing they might be considered “nefarious signalling.”

Chen gave them a quick rundown. “White male found floating in the lake. Recovered by Rodney Taylor, camp counsellor. Paramedics arrived, saw rope and possible stab wounds, and called us. No thoughts yet on age. Short rope around his neck. Large amount of dried blood, what is probably dried blood, on the shore pooled in one area. Possibly stabbed here, then maybe ran or was pushed into the lake. Shore.”

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he knocked the heater off the cigarette. Chen blew hard into the filter—he swore it made relighting a cigarette taste better—and put the mostly-smoked cigarette back into its pack. He never revealed to anyone how he disposed of his used cigarette butts.

Chen promised a post mortem that afternoon and said someone from his office would call the Homicide Unit to arrange for a team member to attend. Murphy nodded. “Adam, call Michael and tell him to expect Dr. Chen’s call. He can be the exhibits officer for the post mortem.”

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