Page 4 of The Burnt (The Declan Hunt Mysteries #3)

Declan was unsettled by the news his father had delivered.

Archie Whitcher is dead.

He’d never thought he’d see the day when that man would pay for what he’d done to his son. But Archie’s last message… Who the hell is Milo? And why did Archie want me to know about him?

Maybe Declan could find something in his notes from the last time he’d encountered Archie Whitcher—notes he hadn’t looked at for a number of years.

Declan opened the large cupboard in his office that contained the safe.

Inside, underneath various boxes and binders, was a file folder labelled Freddy .

He placed it on his desk, poured himself a scotch, then sat down and opened the file.

Declan looked over the photocopies of the pages of his old police notebook.

While Declan and Gary Sawchuck had been the ones who had discovered and dealt with the identification of Freddy’s body, the investigation had been turned over to a Sergeant McKeckran.

Declan had encountered the homophobic asshole again just last year.

McKeckran had tried to close the file on the Ian Mann case because he was sure the victim was gay.

Years before, he had swept the Freddy Whitcher death under the same carpet.

Declan knew the case had never been adequately investigated.

The rage returned.

There was nothing of value to be found in the notes other than stirring up a painful memory. Declan placed a quick call to Gary Sawchuck. A gruff voice answered on the other end. “Yeah.”

“Gary, it’s Declan. I got your message. Are you still on the scene?”

“Forensics is wrapping up for the day. We’ll be back tomorrow, but the body’s gone and we’ve been through the preliminaries. I’ll keep you posted if there’s anything else that pertains to you. You got any idea what Archie was talking about when he used your name before he died?”

“Nope,” Declan replied. “All right, Gary. Thanks. Keep in touch.”

Declan disconnected. He wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight unless… He knew what he needed to do next.

Declan got into his van and began to drive toward an address in Forest Lawn. He hadn’t been there in over a decade, but certain places he’d never forget.

He thought back to the morning when he and Gary Sawchuck had been on patrol near an industrial park.

Declan had seen flames in a vacant lot. His first thought was that it was probably a fire set by some homeless guys trying to keep warm.

Winter in Calgary could be unforgiving, especially for those who lived on the streets.

As they got nearer they had discovered that the fire was larger than they’d expected. Still, it wasn’t close to any buildings and they’d figured they could put it out with the extinguishers in their cruiser’s trunk. No need to involve the Calgary Fire Department.

As the junior, Declan was the one who’d ventured out into the cold while his partner stayed warm inside the car, finishing off his coffee.

Sunrise wasn’t due for another hour so it was still dark out when Declan had pulled the first of the extinguishers out and tackled the blaze.

He’d emptied the contents of one extinguisher, then put out what remained of the fire with the second.

Declan could still remember the rest like it happened yesterday.

He had pulled out his flashlight and scanned the area around the fire which appeared to have been fuelled by a bunch of stacked wooden skids.

Off to one side of the blaze, under another skid, was a backpack, blackened by smoke but only lightly singed.

Declan had opened it and shone his flashlight inside, discovering some clothing.

From the size of the shirt he’d pulled out, it appeared to belong to a kid—a teen, probably.

He’d dug deeper and found a wallet. There was identification in it—a Calgary Transit Monthly Youth Pass which was just about to expire, and a student card.

The name on the card was Freddy Whitcher.

Another runaway was the first thing that had come to Declan’s mind.

He’d figured the poor kid had probably been frightened away when the fire grew out of control and forgotten to take his pack.

Then Declan had seen it—a human leg protruding from under a charred wooden pallet.

Inked into the leg was a rough tattoo—‘M+F’ surrounded by a heart.

Once the forensics team had taken charge and they had an address for the kid, Declan and Sawchuck had been dispatched to see if anyone there could identify the body.

Declan was glad that Gary had taken the lead.

He’d knocked on the front door. It was opened by a guy who had clearly been drinking.

His hair was unwashed, his face unshaven and his clothes were shabby.

He looked like a man who’d given up on life, or life had given up on him. It was Archie Whitcher.

Gary had asked the guy if he had a teenaged son named Freddy, and the guy had asked “What’s that little faggot done this time?

” Those words were etched in Declan’s memory.

He had spent his early years having words like that wielded against him by his own father and was sensitive to them being used against this kid.

Archie had claimed his son had left the previous day and hadn’t come back.

Then Gary had asked if Freddy had a tattoo on one of his legs.

Declan remembered Archie replying that it was something Freddy and his faggot friend had done all on their own, then said if Freddy was in trouble, it was his problem.

Archie had started to shut the door but Gary had blocked it with his foot, and after he’d revealed that they thought Freddy was dead, the tone of the encounter had changed.

Declan was there a day later when Archie was brought in to identify the remains of his son. All he could be shown was what was left of the tattooed boy’s lower right leg. Archie had shown no emotion. He’d just said, “That’s him,” before walking out.

During the investigation, it was discovered that Archie Whitcher had served time in jail for many of the choices he’d made in his life, but in Declan’s opinion, he’d never paid a price for what had led up to his son’s death.

Until now.

* * * *

Declan parked across from Archie Whitcher’s house.

He stared at the dilapidated bungalow. He pictured what the place would have looked like earlier in the day with squad cars, paramedics and forensics vehicles blocking the road.

He imagined bystanders trying to get a look at the victim as he was wheeled away in a body bag.

Investigators would have been comparing notes on what they had found and what was said.

Now everything was quiet. Police tape surrounded the darkened home, marking it off as an active crime scene.

It was the only evidence that something out of the ordinary had happened here.

Surprisingly, there didn’t even appear to be a manned police cruiser standing guard.

Budgets being what they were these days, the force probably couldn’t spare a cop and car just to sit there and guard the empty house.

Or maybe their priority wasn’t the death of a low-level criminal.

No matter what, in the light of the streetlamps, the house looked rundown and drenched in sadness, just as Declan remembered it the last time he’d been there.

Declan parked the van and clenched his teeth. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.