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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.

 

 

BESIDE THE ROAD — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME SERIES BOOK #4

Dead Men Do Tell Tales

New Book Release – June 2020 – by Garry Rodgers, DyingWords Digital & Print Media Canada

Warning! Beside The Road 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. 

Prologue

He lay beside the road. He lay beside the road as dawn’s first streaks smeared the eastern sky and the horizon’s weak rays cast frail shadows through early mist. Songbirds introduced the day—while an owl’s screech signed off the night—as he lay on his back in death’s putrid stench… discarded and dumped down a backwoods bank beside the road.

Light spread through the rural woods where a poorly-paved path cut a meandering trail high above him, shielding his corpse from passing view. The sun unhurriedly appeared. It evaporated the overnight dew that formed in early summer, and the temperature began to rise from a tolerable chill. Predictably, the sun climbed the cloudless sky towards another afternoon’s peak of uncomfortable heat.

By nine, the sun angle was right for direct beams to touch his torso through the picket-fence gaps in roadside trees vertically rising from the steeply-sloped bank. A stand of coastal Douglas fir, native to British Columbia’s central Vancouver Island, guarded his body while a canopy of Western red cedars sheltered his cadaver from the direct sear of mid-day heat. The forest floor was a pad of thorns and ferns and moss and sticks and leaves and sticky needles that slowly deteriorated along with him as part of the universal plan.

Hour by hour, as the world turned and time passed, intermittent sunlight radiated him into a zipper-like pattern. Low luminosity left a softening effect on his exposed skin while solar gain from higher scales scorched him with a dryness that turned his trunk zebra-striped in a way few deceased people present. He had a piano-key pattern and a rarity produced by alternating spectrums of electromagnetism.

Day by day, as the Earth evolved and entropy progressed, he became a unique specter—part putrefaction where light hit him low and part mummification where diffusing blows of afternoon rays parched his flesh.

He was clothed. Partly clothed, that is, with his feet in shoes and his privates in shorts. His singlet, or wife-beater muscle shirt, bunched about his upper chest. His head was bare and so were his arms. His hair was stringy strands of brownish sludge that trapped the decomposing flesh and fats flowing from his scalp. And, his left hand reached as if grasping for help while his right helplessly crooked behind his back.

His face was mostly exposed to the bone and his eyes were gone. His cranium sucked in the sunlight and left him with a bare-skull appearance where his teeth—a distinctly different dentition—gave a half-snarl and a half-sneer similar to a pirate’s ghastly flag.

He had a name. He once had a family, and he once kept some friends. He once had a childhood and he laughed and he played and he schooled and he fooled around like anyone passing through their youth and into their adulthood would. But, his life was extinguished and his consciousness had parted ways with his physical entity—his remains left on the slope beside the road to break down.

Now, he was a medical mess with nature’s creatures consuming his corpse. Insects cycled through their growth stages and carried on the continuous loop of evolution. Forest vermin feasted on their share of his disarticulating decay while circling birds apprehensively watched for their chance at a piece of the putrefied pie.

He had a past. He had a past not to be proud of that caused him to be in his present condition—a dead and discarded human body that lay in silent stink beside the road.

Chapter One — Tuesday, July 9th – 1:10 pm

Leaky Lewis sent me a text. body beside the road. prob foul play. can u attend?
I texted Leaky back. What road, ffs? There’s a thousand roads in this town.
Leaky replied. o sorry. nanaimo lakes rd. approx 6 mi west near gogos sawmill.
I typed. Helpful. Are you there now?
He responded. no. im in council meeting. thats why text and not call.
I returned. So who has the scene?
Leaky pecked. uniforms got it. forensics en route. i called coroner. she’ll meet u.

——

Leaky Lewis was my boss at our Serious Crimes Section. He was junior to me in service, but that was okay. I preferred investigating murders more than stretching budgets and scrambling resources like Leaky had to do. And, this case of the body beside the road stretched and scrambled our budget and resources to the max. We used almost every investigation tool and technique available before we finally solved the most baffling and bizarre homicide file of my long detective career.

Leaky’s name was Jim. Jim Lewis. He’s a great guy, but had a serious incontinence problem with post-urinary drip. That’s why the nickname. Leaky couldn’t venture far from the trough without Depends, but he made sure we had everything needed to do our job.

By “our” I mean the seven-person squad tasked with investigating violent persons offenses that happened around the Nanaimo area. We’re located on central Vancouver Island in British Columbia right across from the craziness and congestion of the City of Vancouver. Nanaimo has Canada’s mildest year-round weather. I’d been here on the southwest coast for years and had hit my best-before date. During that time, I’d seen a lot of serious crimes because Nanaimo had an extraordinarily high homicide rate.

Leaky looked after our entire plainclothes unit. Besides the Serious Crimes bunch, he supervised the Commercial Crime unit, Sex Offenses, Forensics, Drug Squad, and one poor prick plagued with frauds and bad plastic. Leaky also oversaw the secret squirrels in our intelligence branch and two notoriously bad-behaved boys on the Street Crew.

——

I pulled up to the crime scene on Nanaimo Lakes Road in my unmarked Explorer. Like Leaky texted, it was just over six miles west of the city limits near a small sawmill run by industrious Slavic immigrants called the Gogo family. There were two police cruisers parked on the right-hand shoulder, the north side, with their red and blues flashing. Two other vehicles sat along the shoulder. One was our forensic unit’s mobile shop. The other belonged to Global TV’s roaming cameraman.

A uniformed cop with a paddle-board stop sign directed traffic around the entourage. She pointed to the left lane and gave me a “get-going” motion. I didn’t recognize her. Likely a new recruit. I hit my grille lights and she startled. Then, she smiled and pointed to the steep bank beside the road.

I parked, got out, and walked toward the marked car at the front of the pack. Already I could smell it. It was that unforgettable stench—somewhere between reeking ammonia in ripe rotten eggs and the putrid aroma of deeply-decayed roadkill. It was the smell one never mistakes.

A senior officer guarded the scene. He’d been with the patrol division for a long time. The patrolman introduced me to the stop-sign gal. I was right, she was a brand-new hire.

“What’s happening?” I was matter-of-fact.

“Body down the bank.” The old harness bull thumbed to the thick stand of Douglas fir trees rooted to the slope and standing tall. Western red cedars loomed overhead. “Been there a while from the look and smell.”

“What do you think?” I stood at the edge. It was loose gravel beside the road’s crumbling pavement. I did not want to slip and take a tumble.

“At first I thought it was a deer.” He scrunched his nose. I could see the young officer kept her distance. “That’s what the guy who reported it thought, too. He was riding his bike up the grade and caught a whiff. So, he stopped and looked over and saw his dead deer wore running shoes.”

“Witness guy still around?” I looked about. The only civilian seemed to be the TV man rolling film.

“No.” The patrolman shook his head. “I got my cadet to take his statement. Gotta start somewhere, right? Then we sent him on his way.”

“Great, thanks.” I paused to look around and take in the scene.

It was bright sunshine and getting uncomfortably warm. The early afternoon sun was south-southwest and high enough to shine over the bank and flood its light on the slope. The site was at the leading edge of a tight left-hand bend, and the road was sharply inclined toward the west. It led to a double-S curve with a cautionary slow advisory sign—not the sort of place to safely pull off.

The traffic was light. A loaded logging truck approached and followed the young officer’s direction. It chugged up the grade and disappeared through the curve. A smaller silver SUV arrived. Instead of bypassing as the officer indicated, the SUV came to a stop behind my Explorer. I saw the new cop frown as the driver put it in park and shut off the engine.

I knew who it was. The door opened and a silver-haired lady with a silver clipboard matching her mane got out. Honey Phelps, our coroner, walked toward me.

“Hi, Honey. Imagine meeting you here.” I smiled. Honey. I love the name. It perfectly suited her. She’d been with the Coroners Service for years, and I’d worked with her at countless death scenes. She was always the consummate professional but with a black humor tinge.

“Is that you?’ Honey whiffed the air like a bear. “Or is that my client?”

“Probably a bit of both.” I chuckled. “I haven’t had a look yet. Waited for you to get here.”

“Looks like Forensics beat me.” She nodded toward the big rig that looked somewhere between a SWAT team’s truck and an indie rock band’s Winnebago.

“Yeah. I think they’re inside suiting up.” I motioned toward the Forensic Identification Section vehicle. “Let’s go have a chat with them.”

Honey looked at my Explorer and then at me. “You alone? No Harry today?”

I grinned. “Nope. I’m batching it. She’s tied up in a court case.” I referred to my usual partner, Sheryl Henderson who we called ‘Harry’ after the Bigfoot in the movie Harry and the Hendersons. Sheryl was a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality.

Honey and I walked up to the Forensics vehicle just as Sergeant Cheryl Hunter stepped down. Her understudy, Matt Halfyard, stayed inside. We called him Eighteen Inches.

Cheryl was dressed in her bunny suit. It’s the white Tyvek coveralls that CSI people constantly wear. I’m sure she slept in that thing.

“What do you think?” I asked Cheryl much the same thing I’d asked the senior patrolman. It was usually a pretty good opener.

“Not sure yet.” Cheryl had her digital Canon ready. Matt was loading a video camera. The first thing Forensics always do is film the scene before they enter it. That step was non-negotiable, and the guarding officers made sure no one went near the body before Forensics began their painstaking thorough task of recording the overall scene. Examining the body beside the road would follow.

“I’m not sure what to think.” Cheryl was always careful with opinions and cautious with conclusions. She was like all forensic examiners. They work with facts. Not fables. It was the nature of the beast.

“I haven’t been down to the body yet.” Cheryl looked to her left and over the bank. “It’s about twenty-five feet downslope and looks like it’s hung up against tree trunks. I have no idea if he… it looks like a he from the size and style of running shoes… that’s all I can really make out from here… if he was hit by a vehicle and sent flying over the bank or if he was driven out here and dumped.”

I looked around. The TV camera guy looked back through his viewfinder. “Doesn’t look like a suicide type of scene.”

Cheryl and Honey agreed. We’d all seen a lot of suicide scenes and this one didn’t fit. My gut feeling said dumpsite.

“Let’s just take this step-by-step till we see what we’ve got.” Cheryl was the voice of reason. “One thing’s for sure. This isn’t a recent scene. From what I can see above the shoes is bare-bones with putrefied flesh partly attached.”

“Been here a while, then.” Honey observed.

“Yeah.” Cheryl looked up at the sun. “But it doesn’t take long in this weather.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Honey smiled. “Let’s have a better look at who’s down there beside the road.”

*   *   *

Beside The Road — Book 4 in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers is just released  — June 2020 — and now downloadable from these leading EBook retailers:

 

 

 

 

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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