Tag Archives: British Columbia

NEW CRIME BOOK – *AT THE CABIN* by GARRY RODGERS

Crime pays. That’s what I’ve learned as I publish Book 8 in my based-on-true-crime series — At The Cabin. This follows In The Attic (which was #1 on Amazon’s Crime Thriller Bestselling list), Under The Ground, From The Shadows, Beside The Road, On The Floor, Between The Bikers, and Beyond The Limits. 4 more are planned in this series, but they’ve suddenly braked while I explore an intriguing opportunity with the film industry — a net-streaming project titled City Of Danger. In the mean time, here’s the product description / blurb / jacket copy for At The Cabin.

——

What monstrous savage viciously attacked Bea Bonnell—inflicting fractures, burns, and excruciating torture on her? And why did he do it? Bea was seventy-four years old, for God’s sake, when this true crime story occurred.

Beatrice Bonnell and her husband, Stan Bonnell, spend their winters at the cabin they own on De Courcy Island in the mild southwest coast of British Columbia. Their De Courcy cabin is far south of their second home near Atlin, an equally small place in the cold goldfields of northern Canada’s Yukon Territory. And it’s always safe and secure at the De Courcy cabin—until a masked and armed stranger arrives with a depraved demand and the brutal intent of getting back something extremely valuable. Bea resists, and the barbaric beast works Bea over—breaking her fingers and ribs, repeatedly singeing her side with a red-hot knife, then setting the cabin on fire with Bea blindfolded and hogtied inside.

Is there a link between the two cabins—Atlin and De Courcy—bringing on this atrocious assault and putting Bea Bonnell into a life-threatening state where she’ll succumb to horrific wounds? That’s the complex case facing the Serious Crimes Section. Their intricate investigation takes detectives from the wintery waters of the Pacific Northwest to the snow-packed roads of the Klondike where they prove two fundamentals found in solving all crimes. One: Occam’s razor—when faced with two hypotheses, the simpler one is always correct. Two: The stranger the circumstances, the closer the answer is to home.

At The Cabin is Book 8 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers, a retired homicide detective with a second career as a coroner—now reincarnated into an international bestselling crime writer. Get At The Cabin in eBook format at Amazon, Kobo, and Nook.

Here are the First Two Chapters of At The Cabin

WARNING!

At The Cabin is based on a true crime story. Explicit descriptions of the crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, and actual police investigation, interview and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times, and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes.

Chapter One — Thursday, March 11th – 8:35 a.m.

“She’s lucky she’s still alive.” The detective from our Green Timbers Serious Crimes Section stopped. She swallowed. She was on the other end of my phone, calling from the Burn Unit at Vancouver General Hospital. “I’ve never seen such injuries… deliberate injuries. The viciousness of this attack is fu… appalling! Sheer cruelty and excruciating torture.”

“What’s the lady’s name again?” I had my notebook open, pen in hand, and a dark roast on my workstation desk.

“Beatrice Bonnell. She goes by Bea.” The Vancouver detective paused. She swallowed again. “Bea’s seventy-four years old, for God’s sake. This assault is just… excuse the language… fucking abhorrent!”

“Where did you say this happened?” I heard her say the place when she called to report one of the most despicable and savage offenses I’d ever investigate.

“At the cabin they own. It’s on De Courcy Island. Our map indicates it’s in your territory. Nanaimo Regional District.”

——

De Courcy Island was in my policing area. De Courcy was one of many chunks of rocky land jutting from the Pacific Ocean off the southeast side of Vancouver Island in British Columbia at Canada’s west coast. Officially, this water-bound and tree-filled region was known as the Southern Gulf Islands in the Salish Sea. Unofficially, the area was the “Big Island” and a bunch of little ones—over a hundred of them, depending on how you classified islands.

I was at my desk at the Nanaimo Serious Crimes Section when my colleague from Vancouver phoned. She’d been notified by hospital authorities when Bea Bonnell arrived by Helijet ambulance the previous evening. Because Bea’s attacked occurred outside the City of Vancouver, investigation responsibility fell to the local area holding jurisdiction for the spot.

That spot, on De Courcy, was just south of Nanaimo, which is a small city of 100,000 on the Big Island. Nanaimo was a hub of activity being straight across from Vancouver proper which was one of the most exotic, erotic, and expensive paces on the planet. Nanaimo also had an active crime rate exceeding Vancouver’s when measured on a per capita base. And the crime against Bea Bonnell rated at the top of atrocities one human being can inflict upon another.

——

“Give me what you got so far.” I was ready to write more besides Bea Bonnell and At The Cabin.

“I don’t know much, to be honest.” The detective’s voice was overtight, like a wound watch spring read to snap. “She was admitted here at eight-forty p.m. last night. Airlifted from Nanaimo to VGH, and they put her directly in the burn unit. It’s questionable if she’ll make it. She’s in critical condition suffering not only from multiple third-degree burns but also from fractured ribs and broken fingers. Whoever did this really worked her over.”

“Any suspects or motive?”

“No suspects by name. Just a lone male. Unknown male. Masked male armed with a handgun. Robbery on the surface, but I think there’s more going on here that’s not being told.”

“Like what?”

“It’s just the vibe I’m getting. What I’m told, and this is third-hand, is that the victim was alone at the cabin she and her husband Stanley Bonnell have on De Courcy Island. He goes by Stan. Stan Bonnell. Little older than her. Seventy-six.”

“Stan and Bea Bonnell? Seventy-four and seventy-six? When did the attack happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon. The best I can get is that it was after one p.m. when Stan left Bea alone at the cabin while he went to town. Nanaimo. They live at an isolated spot on De Courcy and have to take a boat off and on. Do you know the place? De Courcy, I mean. Not necessarily the cabin itself.”

“Yup. I’ve been in Nanaimo over thirty years, and I’m a boater. I’m familiar with De Courcy’s location and coastline but not the island by land. It’s like a lot of these small Gulf Islands. Sparsely populated and private.”

“Right. I Googled it. I also have GPS coordinates for the cabin location.”

“What else do you have?” I asked this as I wrote the GPS numbers in my book. “What was this guy after?”

“Well, this is where I’m having trouble. Bea is sedated so she can’t talk. The only one she’s told is Stan and he’s… I don’t know how to put it… vague. Not… I can’t say evasive. Maybe a touch of dementia, or maybe just the stress of this whole thing.”

“I can understand the stress. What’s the extent of Bea’s injuries?”

“Most of her fingers and some of her ribs are broken. Then she has a series of thirteen individual burns along her left side. Directly on her skin from her hip up to her mid-chest area. They look like what she says happened. First, he tied her hands behind her back. Then he broke or dislocated her thumbs and fingers and he threw her on the floor and began kicking her in the ribs. Then it got worse. He heated up a knife on the stove and began burning her again and again along the side until he got frustrated and left but not before setting the cabin on fire with her hog-tied with a pillowcase over her head.”

“Hog-tied? Pillowcase? Set the cabin on fire with her in it?” I’d never heard anything like it. “How the fuck did she survive?”

“She must be one tough old bird.” The detective was tenser now than when she’d started talking. “This is what I got from Stan and the medical staff he talked to. Stan left Bea alone at the cabin while he took his boat and left De Courcy to get something. He was gone four hours and got back just before dark. He found Bea lying on the ground outside the cabin door. She was still bound and hooded. She was in terrible pain and nearly delirious as well as hypothermic.

“I can’t imagine. It was so cold and wet here yesterday.”

“The best I know of what Bea told Stan, and this is hearsay, is that after Stan left, this masked man showed up at the cabin holding a handgun and threatened to kill her, Bea, if she didn’t give him what he wanted. Bea refused, so the guy wrapped her hands behind her back and took a pillowcase, I don’t know, from the bed maybe, and pulled it over her head. He told her he was going to work her over till she gave in. She told him she didn’t have anything to give him. Then he started bending and snapping her fingers, put the boots to her ribs, and then went into the burning.”

“This is just fuckin’ sick.”

“No better word to describe it.” The detective’s voice was like someone had turned her volume down.

“Then he set the cabin on fire? How’d she get out of being hooded and hog-tied?”

“I’m not that clear about this. The cabin didn’t burn down. He, the bad guy, told her since she didn’t give up what he wanted, she could die in there. So he took a bunch of papers and placed them around the stove. They caught fire and he left, closing the door behind him. Bea could see flames through the pillowcase, so she wiggled her way to the stove and managed to knock a pot of water off the top and that drenched the papers.”

“Wow!”

“Then she wormed her way to the door, forced it open, and rolled outside. Bea lay there on the wet and cold ground until Stan got back. Oh! And her feet, ankles, were tied too.”

“Just wow!”

“Like I first said, she’s fucking lucky to still be alive.”

“What’s her medical prognosis?”

“Not good. She’s in critical condition. They’re afraid she’s going to develop complications and pass away. The severity of her injuries and her age are so stacked against her.”

“What was this guy after? Like, to go to this extent, there must be something extremely valuable he wanted.”

“This is where I’m having a hard time.” The detective took a long pause. She quietly said, “I don’t think Stan is being truthful with me.”

Chapter Two — Thursday, March 11th – 9:40 a.m.

I sat in Leaky Lewis’s office. Harry was with me. We talked about the report I’d received on Bea and Stan Bonnell from the Green Timbers detective.

Leaky was in charge of support services in our police department. His real name was Jim Lewis, and he got the nickname because of a chronic condition. Leaky suffered from urinary incontinence which made him well suited to occupy the corner office equipped with a private washroom.

Our Nanaimo force had a complement of around 140 regular police officers with an additional sixty civilians working in various roles. The backbone of any police force is the uniform or patrol officers who handle front-line complaints and emergencies. I spent very little time in uniform as I quickly realized where the backbone ends up so I made a play for criminal investigations. Now, I had well over thirty years of detective experience and was a leading candidate to be put out to pasture—cop-speak for retirement.

The support services Leaky commanded included our Serious Crimes Section. We had three teams of two detectives, each of whom were mandated to solve violent offenses against people. Mostly, we did murder cases but serious assaults like the one on Bea Bonnell fell into our hands, especially since Bea’s prognosis wasn’t good. This had every shadow of a murder file developing as the time passed and clues came to light.

Besides our overworked Serious Crime Section, Leaky looked after our Forensic Identification Section, which was the CSI department, Drug Squad, Criminal Intelligence, Commercial Crime, Street Crew, Property Crimes, and one poor prick plagued with frauds and bad plastic.

Harry was my detective partner. Her real name was Sheryl Henderson. Sheryl was a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality. She got the name Harry after the Bigfoot or Sasquatch in the movie Harry and the Hendersons.

——

“I think Stan’s hiding something.” Harry was the first to speak. She’d listened in to the phone call with the Vancouver detective. “I don’t buy Stan’s statement. Like, some armed and masked stranger shows up while he’s away and does this to his wife and Stan doesn’t know what the guy was after? Give me a fucking break.”

Harry was never one to suppress her opinion. She was usually right, but tact and diplomacy weren’t strong character traits with Harry. Still, I loved her as my partner of three years, and I knew the number one strength holding Harry together—her loyalty.

We played the audio-recorded statement the detective took from Stan Bonnell and shipped to us as an email attachment.

——

“Please state your full name and address, Mister Bonnell.”

“Right. I’m Stanley Edgar Bonnell. That’s Bonnell with two n’s and two l’s. I go by Stan. Stan Bonnell. We have two places. That’s me ’n Bea, my wife. Beatrice June Bonnell. The winter we spend down at the cabin on De Courcy Island. Summers, me ’n Bea are up at the cabin at Surprise Lake ’bout twenty miles due east of Atlin. Atlin, if you know where it is, is in the northwest corner of British Columbia. Closest big town or trading center up there is Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory. We come down to De Courcy in November when things start to freeze up in the north, and we head back up in late April when things start to thaw out again and the frost is gone enough so we can work the ground.”

“Very well. Please tell me what happened at the cabin on De Courcy Island that led to you and your wife Bea to be here at Vancouver General Hospital where we’re recording your statement today.”

“Right. So I don’t know exactly what happened at the cabin ’cause I wasn’t there when it happened. I can only go by what Bea managed to tell me, and what I saw musta gone on. I was away in town. At Nanaimo. I left just after noon to conduct business and get supplies and I took the boat we moor at De Courcy at Gunderson’s dock. Bea was fine and everything was good when I left. However, when I come back approaching dark, I arrived to find a hell of a mess. Here was poor Bea all wrapped up on the ground outside the door and she was terrified and in terrible pain from her injuries. I pulls up in the truck. We got an old truck we use to get around on the island as the cabin is not down by the dock. It’s a bit inland. Anyway, I sees Bea on the ground with her hands tied behind her and her feet cinched at the ankles and this soaking wet cloth hood over her head and I says, ‘Land’s sakes woman. What have you gone and done to yourself?’ And she says the best she can ’cause she’s now terribly cold and shaking and really in pain, ‘He tried to rob me and he smashed-up my hands and my ribs and burnt me all over with a hot knife.’ And I says, ‘Who? Who done this?’ I untied her. Actually, I cut the rope off her hands and feet, ankles, and I yanked the hood off and I got her up and into the truck where what we got left of a heater was on. Bea says, ‘I don’t know who done this. I got no idea at all. You got to get me to the hospital.’ She was in bad shape. Real bad shape and the medical folks here don’t know if she’s gonna make it. Gonna pull through.”

“Did she describe her attacker?”

“Masked man with a gun. Handgun. That’s all she said. She got no idea who done this.”

“Did your wife say what he wanted? What he was after that made him do this?”

“She didn’t get into that much detail. She also told me he tried to set fire to the cabin with her in there. I looked and I saw where the papers on the floor were burnt and where she kicked the hot water pot over to douse them out.”

‘She was able to give you this detail, but not the reason the masked man with the gun came to your cabin and did these horrific acts to her?”

“Nope. I mean yes. Yes, Bea said what happened. As in who it was and what he did to her. She didn’t exactly go into all what was said. Like I said, Bea was in awful pain and terribly cold. All she wanted, and all I could think of, was getting her warmed up and to a place where her injuries could be treated. I took her by boat to Nanaimo where an ambulance met us at the dock. Seeing how bad she was, they flew her straight over here to the burn ward.”

“Excuse me for a sec. You said Bea knew who it was. She knew who it was that attacked her?”

“No. No. She knew it was a masked man with a gun who done this. A loner. She didn’t know who the guy was as in his identity. I got no clue who done this.”

“Do you know why he attacked Bea? What exactly he was after?”

“He might have been after something. Something real valuable enough to go to this stretch.”

“Stan, this is an extremely vicious attack. Whoever is behind this must have been desperate for something. What’s your suspicion?”

“I can’t really say.”

Chapter Three — Thursday, March 11th – 9:55 a.m.

“He can’t really say.” Harry scoffed. She clicked her pen. “Bullshit.”

——

Get At The Cabin on Amazon, Kobo, or Nook.

ON THE FLOOR — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME BOOK BY GARRY RODGERS

Savage… Shocking… Senseless… Who would order two seniors to lie on the floor of their gun store, then cold-bloodedly execute these defenseless people with gunshots to the back of their heads? That was the fate of Berndt and Erika Lankenau in their business, Shooting Sports Supply, on Vancouver Island at Canada’s west coast. On The Floor is Book 5 in my ongoing Based-On-True-Crime Series. The other series books are In The Attic, Under The Ground, From The Shadows, and Beside The Road. Between The Bikers is now in the first-draft stage.

On The Floor takes you inside an actual double murder investigation with real police procedures. You’ll travel with the detective and forensic team as they meticulously examine a complex crime scene and you’ll follow a trail of clues that end in a massive confrontation with who committed this heinous crime.

This book comes with a warning: On The Floor is based on a true crime story. It’s not embellished or abbreviated. Explicit descriptions of the crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, and actual police investigation, interview, and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times, and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes. Here’s the Prologue along with the first two chapters.

On The Floor — Book 5 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series

**New Release — August 2020**

Prologue — Saturday, January 11th – 5:30 pm

“On the floor!”
Erika Lankenau and her husband, Berndt, stood in silent shock.
“Get on the floor! Facedown! On the floor!”
The owners of Shooting Sports Supply, a prominent Vancouver Island gun store, froze.
Erika’s mouth opened. No words came out.
Berndt Lankenau hesitantly raised his hands.  His empty palms faced forward.
“You heard it! Get on the fucking floor! Right fucking now!”
“Vat… vat is dis business?” sixty-nine-year-old Berndt asked in his German accent.
“Just do what you’re told and no one gets hurt.”
Erika, sixty-four, bent her knees. “Do as ve’re told, Berndt. Do as ve’re told.”
“Listen to her, old man. Get your face down on the fucking floor, or you’re dead.”
Berndt swallowed. He kept eye contact. Slowly, Berndt lowered to one knee and put his right hand on the hard floor. “Ve don’t vant no trouble.”
Erika lay in a prone position, face on the cold concrete with her left arm stretched ahead. Her right hand felt for Berndt.
Berndt also obeyed. His arms reached beyond his head and his face was on the floor.
“One… Two… Three.”
Ba-Bang! Bang!

Chapter One — Sunday, January 12th – 9:15 am

My cell toned. I looked at the call display. Oh… Oh… It’s Leaky and it’s Sunday morning.
“Hey, Jim.” I called him by his real name, Detective Staff Sergeant Jim Lewis. Not by his nickname, Leaky Lewis.
“Hope you have no plans for the day.” Leaky sounded serious, and he was.
“Nothing that important.” I did, but I knew this would trump what I was in the middle of.     “What’s up?”
Leaky paused, then told me, “Looks like we got two bodies in Shooting Sports Supply. They’re motionless. Facedown on the floor.”
I paused, too. I knew the business, including the owners, Berndt and Erika Lankenau. I also knew Ripley Rafter who worked with the Lankenaus. Ripley—everyone called him Rip—was a retired patrol sergeant from our department and a gun enthusiast, through and through.
“Uh-oh. What does it look like?” I felt like I’d just received a next-of-kin notification.
“I haven’t been there yet.” Leaky hadn’t. Leaky rarely went far from the office or his home because he suffered a chronic case of urinary drip.
“Who has the scene?” I was mentally preparing. My gut said this wasn’t good. And it wasn’t.
“Uniforms have it secured. No one’s been in yet. The placed is locked like a vault. Unless we get keys, we’ll have to cut our way in.”
I tried to picture it. I’d been in Shooting Sports Supply many times over the years that I served as a detective and Emergency Response Team marksman, or sniper as some call it. Shooting Sports Supply was the leading gun store in Nanaimo, a seaside city of a hundred thousand on the southeast side of Vancouver Island in British Columbia on Canada’s west coast. Nanaimo is right across from the City of Vancouver—one of the most exotic, erotic, and expensive places on the planet.
“How do you know… can you see them through the windows or something?” I envisioned standing outside Shooting Sports and looking through the bars behind the glass.
“That’s what I understand.” I knew Leaky nodded. He talked on the phone like he spoke in person. Leaky was an amicable guy and my supervisor at the Serious Crimes Section. He was junior to me in service but then, so was everyone else. I was the oldest on the detective squad and mulling retirement.
“So, is someone locating the keys, or a torch, or something?” I asked a logical question.
Leaky probably nodded again. “Yeah, Harry is tracking down the owners’ son. Our property index shows the primary contact as Mister and Missus Lankenau. They didn’t answer their phones, and there was no one home at their house. Speculation is it’s them dead on the floor.”
“Wait.” I processed this. “How do you know they’re dead?” Something wasn’t making sense.
“Well, ah… you can see through the window.” Leaky sounded slightly annoyed.
“I know you can see through a window, but how do you know there are two dead bodies?”
Leaky hesitated, then slightly chuckled. “Who’s on first… No. I haven’t been there myself. Harry has. She was in the office when the call came in reporting something suspicious inside. A uniform dropped by to check. The lights are on inside, but the doors are locked. He, the uniform, could see the shapes of two people lying face down about twenty-five feet ahead along the main aisle. So the Watch Commander called for Serious Crimes and Harry just happened to be in the office. Harry says it sure looks like two dead bodies to her, so she’s now on a mission to get in.”
Harry was my partner on the Serious Crimes Section. Her real name was Sheryl. Sheryl Henderson. Sheryl was a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality. We called her Harry after the Bigfoot on the movie Harry and the Hendersons.
“Okay.” I slowly got the picture. “So how did this start? Who first found it and called it in?”
I could hear Leaky sipping his coffee. I’d hinted Leaky should cut coffee out as it only made his incontinence worse.
Leaky continued. “From what I understand… and this is hearsay… a customer dropped by to see if Shooting Sports Supply was open, even though it’s Sunday. The front door was secured, but he was puzzled because the lights were on and it looked like they were open. He… the customer who I think is one of our reserve officers… don’t quote me. He rattled the door, tapped on the glass, and peered through the main window.”
“Okay.”
“So the customer takes a jolt when he sees the forms of two people that looked like they were facedown on the floor half-way down the aisle. At first, the guy thought they were dummies. Like, placed there as some sort of weird scarecrows in case someone planned a burglary. Then, he does a double-take and sees what looks like dried blood pools around their heads.”
“Uh… oh…” I pictured it.
“Yeah. Sure doesn’t sound like an accident or kinky double suicide to me.”
“No…”
“I think we got something nasty here. I want us getting inside as soon as possible. Also, I want to ass-cover with paramedics just in case there’s still life.”
“Doesn’t sound hopeful.”
When Leaky said dried blood around the head and face down on the floor, it hit home.
I feared they’d been executed in a robbery.

Chapter Two — Sunday, January 12th – 10:05 am

I pulled my unmarked Explorer into the Shooting Sports Supply parking lot. It was a small strip mall in a light industrial area of central Nanaimo, across from the main Golf & Country Club. The complex had mixed-use businesses surrounding the gun store that ranged from a fireplace dealer to a karate school.
There was a small group mustered outside the front door. They were adjacent to a large, freestanding electric sign that bore the triple-S logo set in a circle and designed to represent a telescopic sight with crosshairs. Two marked police cars sat without their emergencies flashing, and two uniformed officers stood with their hands in their pockets. I recognized both, but I was lost for their names. Our department now exceeded one hundred and eighty sworn officers. Then, we employed a host of civilians in support roles.
I recognized another guy dressed in combat pants with a duty vest overtop of his issue jacket. He was Matt Halfyard, an understudy with the Forensic Identification Section. We called Matt Eighteen Inches.
I also recognized a reserve officer who’d been with our force for a long time. Randy Mellow shuffled from foot to foot and kept blowing on his hands. I didn’t know if he was trying to warm himself or if he was shaken up.
I didn’t blame him for wanting warmth. Even though the Nanaimo area of Vancouver Island has the mildest climate in Canada, the winter months are wet and chilly. The low temperature especially affected me as I suffered from Reynaud’s Syndrome. That’s a hereditary condition where I lost feeling in my fingers and toes when the mercury dropped below 40 Fahrenheit. Fortunately, my wife had bought me a pair of electric mitts, and I wasn’t afraid to wear them.
“What does it look like, Matt?” That was my standard opening line.
Matt also looked cold. He’d already recorded the outdoor scene temperature. It was 36 degrees, slightly above freezing, and it wouldn’t get much warmer for a few days yet. The overnight rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low. A haze shrouded the golf course across the street. It looked… ghostly.
“This is nasty. Real nasty.” Matt pulled no punches. “I’ve called Cheryl to attend. I think this scene is over my head.” Matt referred to Sergeant Cheryl Hunter, our senior forensic examiner. She was also Matt’s tutor and mentor.
“What’s happening with keys to get in?” I hadn’t talked to Harry yet. I phoned her, but she didn’t answer. That wasn’t unusual. I also didn’t leave a voice message for Harry because her greeting quite annoyed me.
“We’re waiting for Sheryl Henderson,” Matt said. “She couldn’t find the gun store owners… I think obviously… and their son, their next-of-kin, is listed as a contact person in case of an emergency. His name is Mike… Mike Lankenau and Sheryl can’t track him down either. We might have to call a locksmith.”
“Let’s hold off on that.” I shook my head. “I don’t want anyone involved with the scene more than absolutely necessary.”
One of the uniforms gave me a sideways look.
“Naw.” I shook my head. “That doesn’t include you guys. We need perimeter security, and we’ll have to clear the building before any scene exam starts. Tell you what. You two can start with a walk around the site. See if anyone is around and if they saw or heard anything. Also, look for unusual stuff. You know… something discarded from the scene, like in the dumpsters.”
The two uniforms spread out. One started a clockwise trip through the complex. The other went counterclockwise.
I turned to Randy. “I take it you found them. Has anyone taken a statement from you yet?”
“Yes. I reported it.” Randy nodded. “And no. No statement yet.” He shook his head.
“All right.” I motioned to my vehicle. “While we’re waiting to get the building open, jump in my Explorer and I’ll turn a recorder on.” I also turned on the heat which pleased both of us. This is what he told me:

——

“Okay, my name is Randy Mellow and I’m a reserve police officer with the Nanaimo department. I also work in my day job as a security systems technician. Just after nine a.m. this morning, I stopped by Shooting Sports Supply. I know it’s Sunday, but Berndt and Erika often stay open weekends. I left a rifle here to get a new scope mounted and… and I wanted to see if it was ready so I could go to the range and sight it in.
“First thing I noticed was the lights were on so I thought Great. They’re open. So I went up and pulled on the door and it was locked. That’s funny, I thought. I could also hear noise coming from inside like a loud radio playing.
“So I looked in the front window… I had to shield the glare… but I didn’t see anyone. I rapped on the glass and called out… loud… to get over the radio but no one answered. I gave it a few minutes and a few more knocks because I thought they might be in the back. In the gunsmithing shop. Not the retail area.
“Then I realized something was wrong. Like real wrong. They stood out… the bodies on the floor. At first, I thought they were a couple of dummies or mannequins as some kind of a joke or to scare off anyone trying to break in. Then I realized they were real… real people.”

——

Randy stopped. He caught his breath, swallowed, and carried on.
“I called it in to 911 and I waited here to give a statement. I knew I’d have to.”
“Describe what you saw.” I gave him a prompt.
“They were… they are… side by side lying on the floor with their faces down in the main aisle… about twenty or twenty-five feet in from the front door. I know it’s Berndt and Erika. I can tell from their looks and their clothes. I know… knew… them well. A lot of officers do… did.” Randy choked up.
“It’s okay. Go on.”
“Anyway… Erika is lying to the left. Berndt is lying beside her to the right. Their heads are facing away from the door… what direction is that… I guess kind of south.”
“Please describe their condition.”
He swallowed and continued. “To me, there’s no question they’re dead. No question. They’re in a facedown position on that cold concrete floor and are motionless. There is also…”
He halted. I thought he was going to break down, but he sniffed and went on.
“Please excuse me. Berndt and Erika are… were… my friends. They’re friends to a lot of us on the force. You, too, I imagine.”
Randy was right. The Lankenaus weren’t close friends of mine, but I certainly knew them from going in their gun store over the years. I was also friends with Rip Rafter and he hadn’t been located. I feared Rip might also be dead on the floor in the back.
He went on. “You can see brown staining on the… on the floor underneath them. To me, it looks like… dried bloodstains.”

——

Harry drove up. She was in her personal vehicle—a brand new silver-gray Range Rover. I finished recording Randy Mellow’s statement and got out. Harry got out, too.
“No luck with the goddam keys.” Harry shook her head. “I think the only fucking way we’ll get in there is a locksmith. Cutting the bars and smashing the glass sounds a little harsh. Especially since they’re already toast. Have you seen them?”
“No, I haven’t.” I knew I had plenty of time to do that. “What about Rip Rafter?”
Harry slurped from her stainless steel Starbucks mug. “I phoned there and then drove over. No one’s home, but Rip’s truck is gone. So is his boat. I think the old fucker’s gone fishing.”
That was a relief. I also didn’t see Rip’s truck in the Shooting Sports Supply lot, but the Lankenaus’ Jeep Cherokee was here. Locked up.
“And you can’t find the son… Mike Lankenau?” This concerned me. I knew a bit about the Lankenau family history, and some of it wasn’t smooth.
“Nope.” Harry slurped again. “He’s not answering the phone number we have on file, and there’s no one home at the address we have for him. But… that doesn’t mean either one is current. You know how accurate our contact system is, eh?”
I nodded. “And you went by Berndt and Erika’s place?”
“Yeah. It’s as dead as they are.”
“Okay. A locksmith it is.”
I Googled Gallazin Locksmiths, got their emergency number, and made a call.

——

Harry and I waited in my Explorer. We kept Randy Mellow at the scene. I had him stay out front of Shooting Sports and keep watch for any unexpected, although highly unlikely, movement inside. The two uniforms were still dumpster diving, and Matt Halfyard wandered around taking exterior photos and video.
It was Harry who said it.
“Don’t you find it strange these people are locked inside their own store? Like, that’s a manual deadbolt on the front door. It doesn’t lock automatically. Whoever did this had to have locked the door from the outside when they left and took off with their fucking keys.”

You can read the rest of On The Floor at Amazon, Kobo or Nook.

 

 

FROM THE SHADOWS — NEW CRIME BOOK RELEASE FROM GARRY RODGERS

What if six members—three generations—of your family were slain in a monstrous mass murder?

From The Shadows is based on the horrific true crime story of grandparents, Ed and Patricia Bartley, parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen, and their two prepubescent girls who disappeared on a Vancouver Island camping trip. Ella was just eleven. Lily was only nine.

This terrible tragedy shocked North America and riveted the Canadian public as Serious Crimes investigators scoured British Columbia’s west coast for any sign of the Jephsen and Bartley families. Where they were, what happened, and who did it captivated all.

Police used massive resources and every available investigation aid to locate the bodies and track down suspects. That involved major media cooperation, highly-creative techniques, and the questionable help of an unsavory for-hire agent.

Then, a break came. In a “never saw it coming” conclusion, detectives learned why the Jephsens and Bartleys were savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after being stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

What advance readers say about From The Shadows:

~ From The Shadows is Garry Rodgers’ best book yet. Garry keeps getting better all the time.
~ I thought From The Shadows was an awesome, super read and very hard to put down.
~ Really nice job of putting the reader on a skewer and roasting them slowly.
~ Horrifying crime story with a wicked twist! Cannot make this stuff up.
~ Excellent, excellent book! I love reading all Garry Rodgers’ work.
~ Absolutely loved it! Would make a great TV series.
~ Wow, what a read! What a ride! Wow!

*   *   *

From The Shadows is the newest based-on-true-crime story in the In The Attic and Under The Ground series.  It involves real people, real dialogue and real police procedures happening in a fast-moving and high-profile, real-life murder investigation. Here’s a sample of From The Shadows …

Chapter 1 — Tuesday, August 23rd – 8:10 am

“What the fuck happened to them?” Harry wondered out loud. She gripped her Starbucks and frowned at her newspaper.

“Happened to who?” I didn’t look up—busy with a cold case email. I was in the cubicle beside Harry, my homicide investigation partner at the Serious Crimes Section.

“This missing family of six.” Harry pointed at the paper. “This shit’s lighting the news. Global TV did a lead story last night. Now it’s headlining this morning’s Vancouver Sun.”

Six missing people? One family? That got my attention. I rolled my seat next to Harry.

Three Generations Vanish On Vancouver Island Camping Trip

Above the fold were their photos. Grandparents Ed and Patricia Bartley. Parents Gunner and Trisha Jephsen. And their two prepubescent girls.

Ella was just eleven.

Lily was only nine.

“I got a bad feeling.” Harry sucked her teeth. Harry always sucked her teeth when feeling bad, and I’d worked with Harry long enough to ignore her teeth sucking but to know Harry’s bad feelings were usually right.

“This is not good.” She gulped her Grande. Harry lowered her specs, squinted at their images, and shook her head. “Not good at all.”

——

I hadn’t followed any news for the last ten days. My wife and I’d been out on our boat in Desolation Sound, seventy nautical miles from our home in Nanaimo where the unspeakable Jephsen-Bartley family mass-murders went down.

Nanaimo is a small, seaside city of a hundred thousand on the east side of Vancouver Island in southern British Columbia, Canada. The community is straight across from the craziness of Vancouver—one of the world’s most expensive, exotic, and erotic cities. Nanaimo is world-class, too—a mecca for international students and tourists. It’s a cruise ship port, a hub of higher learning, and the gateway to unlimited outdoor adventures for campers from across the country, plus around the world.

Nanaimo also has an unusually high murder rate.

——

“What’s this about?” I scanned the article.

“You haven’t been following?” Harry gave me a look like I’d not heard about climate change or what Trump just pulled off. “Fuck, you have been off the grid.”

Harry and I were part of a detective squad based in Nanaimo. We worked in teams of two, responsible for investigating major crimes around central Vancouver Island. The population isn’t big, but the area is huge. It includes vast tracks of unspoiled wilderness making “The Island” a camping paradise.

“Fill me in.” I knew Harry would fill me in—whether I liked it or not—so I gave her the opener. Harry could be annoying at times, but she said the same about me. Still, I loved her as my partner and as a friend despite being a gossipy train wreck in her personal life. We’d been partners three years, and I hoped to keep Harry till I retired. That wasn’t far off.

Retirement was a way off for Harry, though. And her name’s Sheryl, not Harry. Sheryl Henderson. Sheryl’s a large lady with larger hair and an even larger personality. We called her Harry after the Bigfoot in Harry And The Hendersons.

——

Harry squeezed her stainless mug, dented by gravity encounters. “This family is from the mainland interior. There’s Ed Bartley and his wife Patricia.” She pointed at their photos. “They’re seniors in their seventies. Pensioners who live in Summerland. Trisha Jephsen is their daughter. She’s married to Gunner Jephsen, and they have two pre-teen girls.”

Harry touched one girl’s picture. “Ella.” She touched the other. “Lily.” Then she touched their parents. “The Jephsens are also from the Okanagan. Penticton, I think.”

“Travelling as a group?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. She stayed on their images. “In two vehicles. Bartley’s have a truck and camper. Jephsen’s have a car and were tenting. The whole works disappeared. Looks like twenty-one days now. Not a word. Dick-all. Nuthin.”

I let it sink in. Six people? Four adults? Two kids? Two vehicles? Three weeks?

Harry went on. “Only thing known is they were on Vancouver Island. That’s for sure. Where exactly? No one knows. I saw the internal bulletin Friday… it’s been in the news all weekend.”

I got ashore late yesterday afternoon—still hadn’t got my land-legs, let alone dug into the news. “When did this start?”

Harry drained her drink. “Gunner Jephsen was supposed to be back at work last Monday, the fifteenth. When he didn’t show up by Wednesday, his boss filed a missing person report. Missing persons, I should say. I guess he’s been at the same sawmill job for over twenty years. Totally reliable.”

“Someone knows where they are.” I quizzed Harry. “Six people and two vehicles don’t just up and disappear for three weeks. Whose case is this? Not ours, I hope.”

By “ours” I meant the Nanaimo police, not specifically our Serious Crimes Section. Detectives don’t have time to get involved in missing person investigations—unless there’s a realistic reason to suspect foul play—and the last thing a detective wants is six murder victims from one family.

“No.” Harry shook her head. She still stared at the photos. “There’s no file opened here. At least not that I know of… then maybe an assistance thing. The missing persons report was filed in Penticton so it’s their baby. But the last sighting… the last contact with them… according to what I’ve seen and heard in the news… is they got off the goddamn ferry here in Nanaimo, then phoned a relative saying they made it to the Island and were looking for a campsite. That was Tuesday, the second. Right after the long weekend. They were going camping on the Island and checking a spot. No one’s heard fuck all from them since.”

“Looking for a campsite on the Island?” I smiled at Harry, raising my brow.

——

Vancouver Island is huge. It’s enormous as islands go—forty-third largest island in the world. It’s bigger than the whole chain of Hawaii. Larger than Timor. Four Rhode Islands in one. It’s superior to Sicily. Longer than Ireland. Wider than Taiwan. And higher than Iceland.

But Vancouver Island’s population is sparse. Less than a million. It’s tiny in human density and small for its size. People are confined to a narrow strip along the southeastern shore. The vast majority of the Island is rugged wilderness—mountains, glaciers, lakes, and rivers—but it’s connected north to south and east to west by a network of highways, secondary roads, and a spider-web of logging trails.

Vancouver Island is an outdoors mecca. It has the mildest weather in Canada. The Goldilocks zone. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just about right. It’s a place where families can ski and surf, golf and fish, hike, climb, and camp from one station.

That camping spot could be a pay-for-stay site with wood and water to a help-yourself slot off a forest service road. It might host hundreds or be secluded away and suit only a truck with its camper and a car with its tent like the Jephsen and Bartley families had.

The Island has thousands of campsites from full-service resorts with fabulous food to isolated pull-offs beside fast-flowing rivers. And the Island has local, municipal, provincial, and federal parks. Some are pure wilderness. Some are too touristy.

Folks like the Jephsens and Bartley’s could have been at many places up or down the Island, across at Tofino, or secluded at smaller ferry-served hops like the Gulf Islands, the Mid Islands, or the Northern Islands near Port McNeil. They might’ve been somewhere within a few hour drive of their departure point in Nanaimo—Pacific Rim National Park, Strathcona Provincial Park, Cape Scott, or Port Renfrew. They could have camped beside Cameron Lake. Retreated to Rathtrevor. Parked outside Port Hardy. Or settled in Saratoga.

Yes, the Jephsens and Bartleys could have been anywhere on Vancouver Island. Lost somewhere within twelve thousand square miles.

But they were here—right in our own backyard—savagely slaughtered then carefully concealed after stealthily stalked and wantonly watched by eyes that looked on from the shadows.

_ _ _

 

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