"Riveting! A murder investigation fraught with chilling undercurrents of danger and betrayal!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted May 8, 2015
Mystery | Thriller
As Detective Constable Kevin Walker's feet crunch across
the icy crust of the snowbound farmer's field, he easily
sees even from a distance that the back of the victim's
neck has been seared by a close contact gunshot wound and
that blood had stained the snow beside the frozen body of a
man. As the paramedic arrives, they both looked at each
other and agreed. Obviously dead.
As per the Ontario Ministry of Health's Decreased Patient
protocol dictates, the paramedic could not touch the body
until directed by the Coroner. Meanwhile, Kevin, a young
and relatively inexperienced detective who had transferred
into the Ontario Provincial Police from the small Sparrow
Lake Police Service has to ponder the question: Who had
executed this man and why had he ended up in this field?
As members of the investigation team arrives, Kevin notices
a woman with a fuzzy hat getting out of a Crown Vic. Who
is she? At first he thinks she might be a journalist but
he soon notices how her eyes vigilantly scan the area.
Then, he knows.
Kevin had heard of Acting Detective Inspector Ellie March
before. Operating out of the OPP Headquarters in Orillia,
Ellie is well-regarded for her interrogation skills. She
has made police investigation her life's work, but at a
huge loss to her personal life. Rumours and comments were
made about her skills, but Kevin dearly wants to be able to
work with her.
Why and who committed this murder? As the police
investigate and dig deeper, intriguing connections to drugs
and family politics are uncovered. Will the police be able
to find the real murderer before their careers and lives
are in jeopardy?
SORROW LAKE by well-known Canadian crime writer Michael J,
McCann is the first book in a new March and Walker Crime
Novel series. With an impressive background in
understanding crime and law enforcement, McCann brings a
very authentic voice and sense of time and place to this
fictional small town of Sparrow lake near the Belleville --
Kingston area in southern Ontario in Canada and to the
police investigating this unusual murder.
I am utterly captivated with SORROW LAKE right from the
first page to the last and by the very likable team of
Walker and March. I particularly enjoyed seeing how
their relationship develops as they get to know each
other's strengths, quirks and backgrounds as they work on
the investigation. Fans who like police procedural books
are sure to relish SORROW LAKE as you really feel like you
are in the room with them as they grapple with internal
police dynamics as well as trying to pull small clues from
local residents in the town.
While SORROW LAKE is easily read as a stand-alone novel,
it augers well for the new series and I am so looking
forward to reading more about how things work out for Ellie
March and Kevin Walker in the next installment in the
series. McCann's plot development is well layered and
complex with intriguing and realistic nuances. Fans of
McCann's previous crime novels featuring Donaghue and
Stainer are sure to be thrilled with this new series and
fans of British and American police procedurals will be
intrigued by how detailed and thorough McCann has been in
getting the details right and this making the story so real
for the reader.
I also like the backstories as to why Sparrow Lake becomes
known as SORROW LAKE. On a personal note, I used to live
on a real Sparrow Lake (near Orillia, Ontario) and so I
appreciate how well McCann captures that small town feel as
well as the interactions of a smaller detachment and the
interactions with the experts from the larger centres.
All in all, I am sure both mystery and police procedural
fans will have lots of good and riveting reading ahead for
them in SORROW LAKE. Check it out!
SUMMARY
Detective Inspector Ellie March of the Ontario Provincial
Police is called in to investigate when a man from the
village of Sparrow Lake is found shot to death, execution
style, in a farmer's field in rural eastern Ontario. Leading an inexperienced team of detectives, she probes
beneath the wintry surface of the township to discover
that
the victim had a dark secret--one that may endanger
others
in the community as well. For young and enthusiastic Detective Constable Kevin
Walker,
the chance to work with Ellie March is an honour, until
the
situation turns ugly and unexpected betrayal threatens to
destroy his promising career.
ExcerptHis breath visible in the early morning air, Detective
Constable Kevin Walker made his way down the hill and
across the farmer’s field toward the body. There was a
crust on the snow from freezing rain that had fallen two
days ago, and his boots punched crisp holes as he
followed the footprints of the old man who’d spotted
something in the middle of his field just after dawn and
had come down to investigate.As he walked, Kevin kept his eyes moving across the snow,
alert for anything out of the ordinary. Other than two
sets of tracks, one belonging to the farmer and the other
to Ontario Provincial Police Constable Bonnie Charles,
the first responder to the scene, the surface of the snow
was pristine. He reached the little circle of footprints
where the farmer had staggered back and retched, he saw
the spilled coffee and the cup the old man had dropped in
his shock, and then he stopped. Close enough. The victim was a man in his fifties. He wore inadequate
low-cut boots, grey trousers, and a tweed car coat. No
gloves. No hat. The back of his neck was seared where a
close-contact gunshot had passed through the base of his
skull and out the front of his neck, leaving a frozen
bloodstain on the surface of the snow. His face was
turned slightly toward Kevin. The eyes were open and
lifeless. The mouth was a frozen oval. Kevin recognized him. He lived in the village, not two
blocks from Kevin’s house. He found it difficult to stop looking at the eyes. They
had a disturbing cloudiness to them that made him feel
uneasy. Kevin had participated in sudden death call outs
before and so it wasn’t his first body, but it was the
first that was an obvious and violent homicide. The
blood, the stains on the trousers, and the cloudy,
lifeless eyes were upsetting. He forced himself to stand
there, taking in all the details, until he no longer felt
repulsed. He heard the sound of tires crunching in the farmer’s
driveway at the top of the hill and, turning, saw the EMS
ambulance arrive. Members of the Sparrow Lake volunteer
fire department, they were, like Kevin, residents of
Yonge Township, a strip of 128 square kilometres jutting
north from the St. Lawrence River between Brockville and
Kingston. He watched Constable Charles point the way down
the hill, waving her arm to make it clear that they
should avoid the farmer’s footprints and follow Kevin’s
down the snowy slope. As they edged their way toward him, he turned his eyes to
the distant line of trees rimming the back of the field.
A mixture of evergreen and bare-limbed deciduous, they
were white with ice that had formed when the temperature
had dropped below freezing again, the night before last.
It made a picturesque tableau against the blue morning
sky. A crow called out somewhere within the forest.
Running his eyes along the tree line, Kevin saw nothing
unusual. A second, distant crow answered the first. There
was no visible disturbance in the snow between the body
and the back of the field. Somewhere in that stretch, however, would be the expended
round that had killed the victim when it ripped through
his neck. He turned and looked at the footprints leading from the
road to the body and back to the road again. Two sets
coming in and one set returning to the road. A one-way trip for the victim and a return trip for his
killer. “Another cold morning, Kevin,” one of the paramedics
called out, by way of greeting. Behind him, his partner
cursed as his boot rolled over a frozen clot of soil
beneath the snow. Kevin held up a hand. “Just you, Philip. Come up beside
me.” The paramedic shifted his equipment bag from one hand to
the other and edged forward until he stood next to Kevin.
He crouched, resting his bag on the snow, and swore.
Behind them, his partner made a coughing sound and turned
away. Philip studied the victim for a moment, then stood
up and looked at the detective. “Obviously dead,” Kevin said. “Obviously dead,” Philip agreed. These two words, quoted
from the Ministry of Health’s Deceased Patient Standard,
obligated him not to touch the body unless directed to do
so by the coroner. He turned to his partner. “Let’s get
out of here, Dan. We’ll wait for Dalca in the truck.” As they hurried back up the hill, they passed Constable
Charles, who was talking into her shoulder microphone as
she walked down. She took a long look at the body for the
second time this morning before making eye contact with
Kevin. “The road’s blocked off between Ballycanoe Road
and Junetown Road. Everyone’s being advised to approach
from the north. We’re setting up the inner perimeters
now. You said to use Mr. Lackey’s yard as the command
post, right?” “Yeah.” The old man, Jerry Lackey, kept his yard well-
plowed between his house and outbuildings, and it was
large enough for a staging area that would accommodate
all the respondents to the scene. Kevin watched Charles depart, issuing instructions into
her shoulder mike, then pulled off his gloves and used
his smart phone to take a few photographs of the body. He
brought out his notebook and drew a rough sketch of the
scene, made a few notes, then slipped it back into his
jacket pocket, put on his gloves, and trudged back up the
hill. He arrived in the yard just as Detective Sergeant Scott
Patterson pulled up in a black-and-white OPP Suburban.
Kevin’s immediate supervisor, Patterson commanded the
Leeds County Crime Unit, and it was his call to Kevin
that had brought the young detective out to Lackey’s farm
in such a hurry this morning. A short, stubby redhead in
his mid-forties, Patterson was carefully dressed in a
full-length black wool topcoat, a black Russian-style fur
hat, leather gloves, and rubber galoshes over his dress
shoes. Kevin suddenly felt self-conscious in his old blue
ski jacket, jeans, and snowmobile boots. “What have we got?” Patterson demanded. “Single shot, base of the skull, out through the front of
the neck. Bled out. Looks frozen, so he was probably out
here all night. Somebody walked him in from the road,
shot him, walked back out, and drove away.” “Sounds like an execution. Did you touch anything?” “No.” It might be his first homicide, but Kevin believed
he understood what he should and shouldn’t do at a crime
scene. “Is it anyone you know?” Kevin nodded. Patterson was asking him the question not
only because Kevin lived ten minutes away from the scene
but also because he’d been a member of the now-defunct
Sparrow Lake Police Service for seven years before the
municipality had contracted out to the OPP. As Kevin
himself had emphasized in his application for a transfer
to the provincial force two years ago, his personal
knowledge of the residents in the area was an asset that
had not only served him well in his brief stint as
Sparrow Lake’s only detective, but should also continue
to do so in his new role as a provincial detective
constable. “His name’s Hansen,” Kevin said. “Bill Hansen. Lives in
the village. Runs a car business. Has a wife, Valerie.
No, Vivian.” “Kids?” “Not that I know of.” “What does the witness say?” “Lackey? I was just about to talk to him. He told the
responding officer he was in the kitchen, getting a cup
of coffee, when he looked out the window and saw
something down here. Came down for a look, then ran back
up and called 911.” Patterson turned around as a large white Mercedes cargo
van with the OPP logo on the side turned into the
driveway. “Ident,” he said. Two men got out of the van and began unloading equipment.
Kevin recognized Identification Sergeant Dave Martin,
commander of the East Region Forensic Identification
Unit, with one of his identification constables, Serge
Landry. “Talk to the witness,” Patterson said. “I’ll get these
guys started. Where the hell’s Dart? I called him right
after I called you.” “Well, he lives in Brockville.” “Christ, that’s no excuse. So do I. It’s only a fifteen-
minute drive.” Kevin watched Patterson cross the yard and shake hands
with Martin. He listened for a moment to the dogs that
had been barking non-stop in Lackey’s barn since he’d
arrived, then he crossed the yard, knocked on the kitchen
door, and let himself into the house. He exchanged nods with the uniformed officer who stood
just inside the door. It was a typical farm house
kitchen, large and warm. A fire burned in a box stove in
the corner. The appliances were yellow and a long way
from being new. A calico cat slept on a side table
covered with newspapers, cat food cans, and empty
bottles. Jerry Lackey sat at the table with a replacement
cup of coffee between his hands. He was a small, wrinkled
old fellow dressed in a blue plaid flannel shirt, green
work pants, white tube socks, and plaid carpet slippers. “How are you feeling now, Mr. Lackey?” “Dunno,” Lackey replied in a monotone, “but I stopped
throwing up, so I guess I’m okay.” “Up to a few more questions?” “Sure.” Lackey raised his eyes to Kevin. They were red-
rimmed and bleak. “Never seen anything like that before
in my life. Not a person. Animals, sure. But never a
human being.” Kevin removed his gloves and toque, shoving them into his
pockets. He pulled off his snowmobile boots and walked
across the kitchen in his stocking feet, unzipping his
ski jacket. “It’s a terrible thing, sir. I understand how
you feel. Do you live by yourself here?” Lackey ran a hand through his uncombed white hair. “Just
me and the animals. The wife passed away eight years ago,
and the kids are all grown and gone.” Kevin removed his ski jacket, draped it over the back of
a chair, and sat down. “Do you keep any livestock?” “Just a couple of cows and an old pony. Gives me
something to do.” “How many acres?” “Two hundred. A lot of it’s bush now. Used to have more
in hay, but since I retired it’s started to grow back in.
Tamarack and birch sprout like weeds. Next thing you
know, there’s ash and maple, and it’s all over.” Kevin took out his notebook and opened it, giving Lackey
a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry about all this. I know
it’s very upsetting, but would you mind running through
with me what happened? Start when you first noticed
something in the field.” “Okay.” Lackey moved the cup of coffee to one side and
clasped his hands together. “I seen him through the
window, there, over the sink.” He nodded to the far side
of the kitchen, where a curtained window looked down the
hill and across the open field alongside Church Road. “What time was this?” “About seven thirty, I guess. I used to be an early
riser, but not any more.” “Go on. What happened?” “Well, like I told the lady officer, I seen something
down there at first but didn’t pay too much attention. I
was getting water for my coffee pot, and I looked through
the window while it was running. It wasn’t too light out
yet, and I could just see this dark shape lying on the
snow. I’m kind of slow waking up in the morning. Thought
maybe it was a deer or something.” “So you made your coffee?” Lackey grimaced, upset. “I know I should have gone out
right away, but you gotta understand, I was still half
asleep. It takes me a while to get going in the morning.” “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Lackey. Nobody’s blaming
you for anything. There was nothing you could have done,
anyway. It was far too late for anyone to have helped
him. I’m just trying to get a clear picture of what
happened. Please, go on.” “Okay, sorry. I’m trying not to be a baby about it.” “You’re doing fine. So you saw the dark shape down there.
Did you see anyone or anything else?” Lackey rubbed his unshaven cheek. “No, just that.” “Then what happened?” “Well, I brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup. I was
going to go out to the road and get the paper from the
box because I like to read it with my coffee, so I had my
boots and coat on, ready to go. I always take my coffee
with me. Just a little stroll to the road and back. I was
walking by the window and looked out again, and I could
see it was still lying down there, and this time it
looked like a man. I didn’t know what to think. So
instead of going for the paper I went down across the
field and, and, and—” Kevin let the silence sit between them for several
moments while he jotted down a few notes. It gave Lackey
time to regain his composure. Then he dotted the last
word emphatically, to let the old man know he was ready
to move on. “I appreciate this, Mr. Lackey. Very much.
It’s a great help to us, it’ll help us understand what
happened. Let’s go back a bit, if you don’t mind. When
was the last time you looked at that field and saw
nothing down there?” Lackey frowned a moment. “I dunno. I suppose yesterday
afternoon. I went into the village to gas up my truck.
When I came back, there wasn’t nothing there.” “What time was that?” “About four o’clock. Four thirty.” “Would that be the last time you looked there until this
morning?” “As far as I know.” “Okay. Now, last night, did you hear anything unusual on
the road? Any vehicles, loud noises, voices, anything at
all like that? Maybe your dogs barking at something?” “Sorry.” The old man shook his head, tapping his ear.
“Hearing aid. I take it out after I watch TV. Nine
o’clock, every night. Don’t put it back in until I get up
in the morning. Can’t hear much of anything without it.” “Did you get up during the night?” “Couple of times. To take a leak.” He glanced self-
consciously at the uniformed officer, who was listening
to him without expression. “See any lights on the road?” Kevin asked. “Maybe from a
vehicle parked down there, or one passing by? Any flashes
of light, anything like that at all?” “Sorry,” Lackey repeated. “I wish I was more help.” “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Lackey, and I appreciate
it.” While still writing in his notebook, eyes down,
Kevin asked, “Do you own a firearm, Mr. Lackey?” “No, not any more. I used to have a couple of hunting
rifles, and a shotgun for vermin, but I sold them a while
back. I don’t do as much around here as I used to. I wish
I still had that shotgun, though.” “Oh? Why is that?” “I sold it too cheap. It was a real good one.” “What about a handgun, Mr. Lackey? Do you own a handgun?” “Naw, why would I? Wouldn’t have a use for it. A waste of
money.” “Did you know the victim?” “No.” Lackey pulled over his cup of coffee and stared at
it glumly. “Who was he? Nobody’s told me.” “Bill Hansen. He lived in Sparrow Lake.” “That so? Oh, wait. That’s the guy deals cars, right?” “That’s right. Did you ever do business with him?” Lackey shook his head. “Not me. Heard about him, though.” “Oh? What did you hear?” “Just that he’s pretty expensive. If I was going to buy
another truck, I wouldn’t go to him because he buys and
sells stuff that’s only a year or two old. I heard he
wholesales for dealerships and sells other stuff on the
side. My kind of new truck is at least fifteen years old
and doesn’t cost more than a grand.” Kevin smiled. “I hear you. Do you know anyone who did
business with him?” “I don’t run with that kind of crowd.” “What kind of crowd?” “People with all kinds of money to spend. People not
retired and on a piddly little pension like me.” “I understand.” Kevin made a quick note. “How well do you
know your neighbours, Mr. Lackey?” “Not hardly at all. I used to know all the families that
farmed on this road, but they’re pretty much all passed
away, and their kids have sold out and moved to the city.
Bunch of commuters along here, now. Young people who work
in Brockville or Kingston or Smiths Falls. I never talk
to them. Only time I see them is when they’re driving by
in their cars. Sometimes they wave. Mostly, they don’t.
It’s that kind of world now.” Kevin stood up and pulled his ski jacket off the back of
the chair. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Lackey. We’ll
have you provide a written statement later.” Lackey swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Sure. No
problem.” He frowned at the kitchen window that had
started all the trouble. Outside, Kevin walked down to the end of the driveway.
The farm was located about seven kilometres southwest of
the village of Sparrow Lake, and eight kilometres north
of Mallorytown. Church Road itself was about four
kilometres long, running south-north between Junetown
Road and Ballycanoe Road. Lackey’s farm was situated
about a quarter of the way up from Junetown Road. As
Charles had said, the entire road was blocked off, and
inner perimeters had been set up to prevent local
traffic, what there might be of it, from intruding on the
crime scene. On Kevin’s right, to the north, there wasn’t
another residence for at least a kilometre, so the inner
perimeter was set somewhere between there and here. It
was far enough away that he couldn’t see it from where he
was standing. On his left, the road sloped downhill and followed a
straight line south. The closest residence, a single-
family, ranch-style house, was barely visible across the
road, within the trees. The inner perimeter had been set
up right at the end of Lackey’s field, about thirty
metres from the neighbour’s driveway—a wooden barricade,
an OPP cruiser, and a bored constable. The road had recently been plowed, but there wasn’t much
of a snowbank along the shoulder. The ditch was shallow
and filled with crusted snow. A page-wire fence ran down
the hill along the edge of Lackey’s field. The fence
posts were grey and weathered, and although a few were
canted over at an angle, the rest were in good shape. The
entrance to the field, through which the victim and his
killer had passed, was about fifty metres from the bottom
of the hill. The gate had been missing for a long time. Crime scene tape fluttered across the road on either side
of the entrance, to protect the immediate area in which
Martin and Landry needed to work. Constable Charles was
in the process of re-tying an end of the tape that had
come undone from where it had been secured on the page-
wire fence. Inside the tape, they had set out several series of
numbered evidence markers on the road, in the ditch, and
through the entrance into the field. Martin was in the
process of following the footprints across the field
toward the body, placing yellow markers on top of the
snow and photographing each print. Landry crouched in the
middle of the road, unpacking supplies from a kit box. In
their crime scene coveralls and hoods, the identification
officers reminded Kevin of animals whose coats turn white
in the winter for protective coloration. Behind him, Kevin heard an approaching vehicle. It was
Patterson, coming back from the north perimeter. He
stepped out of the way to allow the Suburban room to pull
in and park. Detective Constable Craig Dart got out from
the passenger side, gave Kevin a look, and started down
the hill toward Landry. Patterson joined Kevin at the end
of the driveway. “His car wouldn’t start, so he had to
get a ride. I picked him up at the barricade.” “I thought he looked more pissed than usual.” Patterson sighed. They watched Landry hold up his hand
and motion Dart away from his work area. Dart
sidestepped, stopped, crossed his arms, and watched as
Landry motioned Charles over to him. He passed the end of
a tape measure to her and gingerly backed away. He was
measuring the distance between parallel tire tread marks,
Kevin realized, to get an idea of the wheelbase of the
vehicle that had brought the victim to the scene. Kevin heard the sound of another car behind him. He
turned in time to see a black Lexus approaching at top
speed. He skipped aside as the car swerved into the
driveway, barely missing him. “This f**king idiot,” Patterson grumbled. Dr. Yuri Dalca climbed out of the Lexus, retrieved his
bag from the back seat, and slammed the door. “Not even
have I had a chance to do my breakfast,” he proclaimed
loudly to no one in particular, “but now I have to walk
all the way through some snow-covered field to look at a
body I already know is dead.” “Life’s rough,” Patterson said, unimpressed. “If you’ll
follow me, Dr. Dalca?” The detective sergeant led the way up the driveway and
down the hill. Dalca followed, complaining with each step
in a loud, accented voice that betrayed his Romanian
origin. Kevin brought up the rear. As they approached the
body, Dalca minced around Patterson and held up his hand.
“Enough for you, right there. Have you already disturbed
my body?” “Nobody’s touched it,” Patterson snapped. “A little respect costs nothing.” Dalca knelt down beside
the corpse. “Frozen stiff. Joke intended. He’s been here
for a while, probably all night.” Obviously, Kevin thought. Watching Dalca fuss around the
body, he mentally reviewed the five questions a coroner
must answer when investigating an unexpected death. Who is the person?—Bill Hansen. When did he die?—Sometime between four thirty yesterday
afternoon and about two o’clock this morning, judging
from the frozen condition of the body. Where did he die?—Right here, given the amount of blood
pumped out across the snow by a heart still beating after
the fatal shot was fired. How did he die?—As a result of the aforementioned gunshot
wound. By what means did he die?—Homicide, without question. “His wife will be so very upset,” Dalca said. Patterson shifted. “You know this man?”
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