― Stieg Larsson
Crime Map Clusters- Willow Creek
After Flora left I thought about what she said. She didn't strike me as a bad person― just preoccupied with class and privilege and of course, my coming from hippie parents meant we inhabited different worlds.
Why is it the older we get the wiser our parents seem? I found myself thinking like my dad, being more tolerant like him and less inclined to judge people on their pedigree.
I was walking back along the street in the direction of the general store. I passed the huge yellow Superstore on the corner that offered discount groceries and no-name products. The small crowd of migrant workers outside reminded me it was Friday.
They had come into town to buy a few treats and send money home to their families.
Whether or not Flora and Harold liked it, Willow Grove was slowly becoming more diverse with fewer and fewer white anglo saxons walking the streets. I had to admit I liked that. I liked the blending of many cultures.
And if you asked me what the typical Canadian looked like, I certainly didn't imagine a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Mountie.
No, change was a good thing. I wasn't threatened by loss of identity. As Flora might say, I knew my place.
"Were you coming to look for me?" a familiar voice called out behind me. I turned to see Ella coming out of the computer store. "I needed a hard drive," she explained, "there's a limit to what we can stock."
"Oh, really?" I teased, "and I thought you were the girl who had everything."
She smiled and looped her arm through mine. "Not everything―I need someone to take me to lunch―I'm starving."
"What do you feel like?" I chuckled.
"Not the coffee and sandwiches we serve. Actually, I'm in the mood for chilli."
"In that case, Tim Hortons it is," I said, steering her in that direction.
I liked Ella...a lot and I like her father Neil too. I was glad she agreed to be my eyes and ears on the ground because I needed all the help I could get to crack this case.
I told her as much as we ate and she seemed surprised that I had already encountered a dead end.
"I figured with the police data base and all the interviews they carried out that you'd be bogged down in a wealth of detail."
"Well, I am and I'm not―it's the particular challenge of working in a small detachment.
"Explain," she frowned, munching on a dinner roll.
"Okay, here's the problem. I was looking at a crime map of the district and you're right, the info was all there, only not readily accessible. Imagine an area map with clusters of crimes pinpointed but nobody organized the filters. I couldn't see what was what―various kinds of assaults, property crime, thefts, disorderly conduct, drug and liquor offences and all other 911 events. It was a dog's breakfast."
"I take it you're not used to that working as a crime analyst in Toronto?"
"Okay, don't get defensive. I suppose it's typical of a rural county —lack of personnel, limited budget and an overwhelmed local police force having to prioritize what's most pressing."
She nodded, seeing my point of view. "That's challenging. What can you do about it?"
"Well, I could drive round all day in an unmarked RCMP stealth car interviewing potential witnesses but where would that get me? I need someone on the ground to help me filter out the improbable and focus on the most relevant."
"So, that's where I come in, huh?"
"Yep, good ole habeas corpus—I can’t arrest or detain someone for questioning without good reason, but I can show you the bodies—It's frustrating because I can’t tie them to a motive, so basically, I’ve got nothing."
"Not nothing," she grinned mischievously, "You've got me now and that's something."
For the second time that day I felt my stomach flip, but this time It didn't make me feel guilty.
I could get to like this feeling, I mused, staring into her dark eyes.
Yes, I could also like this place and willingly waste some time in it—maybe the rest of my life, spending it with her out in the country.
<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>