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e Vietnam war, suffering from PTSD, has made his way to the peaceful Okanagan area of B.C. Here he chooses to target young Asian female victims who will serve his purpose as he assumes the persona of Ogopogo, a Canadian folk lore lake serpent  who was said to inhabit Okanagan Lake.

Ignatius (Iggy) Myles and Jacob (Jake) England, two Kelowna street-wise detectives are nearing retirement,  but their plans are put on hold as the  killer’s prey becomes personal and they are forced to pursue the monster through the mountainous wilds of British Columbia.

EXCERPT

The Okanagan Lake Bridge (also known as the Kelowna Floating Bridge) was the first of its kind in Canada. It was actually supported by huge pontoons and was constructed in 1958, connecting the southbound traffic of Hwy 97 on the west side of the lake to north-west traffic on the east. The bridge was over two thousand, one hundred feet long and in 1985 the city had added a third lane to the two existing roadways to facilitate increases in usage at different times of the day.

This evening, Jake and Iggy sped across the center lane, their rooftop lights flashing as they headed down the exit ramp to Westbank. Once on the other side of the lake they drove under the on-ramp and in a matter of seconds they were at the scene. Once again, Briggs and Allen were there, as was Tommy Ling, the medical examiner. The officers looked up at the two detectives as they stooped under the tape that served as a barrier against the curious onlookers that had already gathered there.

“Tommy, we meet again, and too soon,” Iggy said. Jake, meanwhile, meandered over to the other side of the crime scene.

“Hey, Nat.” Tommy acknowledged the detective. “At first glance, I gotta say this one is similar to the last,” said Ling, his manner serious, getting directly into it. He looked grimly at the figure that was lying in the rubble under the bridge. “Another Asian lady, probably in her early twenties. No ring, so I am assuming single. She has also had her eyes surgically removed. I’ve already taken off a small, black garbage bag that had been placed over her head.”

“Christ, Tommy,” Iggy said, his voice lowered. “This is definitely looking like a serial killer’s work.”

“Yeah, although the difference here is the cause of death. Unlike suffocation with the first girl, this one has been bled to death.”

Now Jake came back to Iggy and Tommy Ling, and he had just picked up on Tommy’s last comment. “She was bled to death?” Jake asked the medical examiner, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

“That’s right Jake. Not unlike how a farmer would bleed out a hog,” Tommy responded, pointing to the neck of the girl’s body where a trail of dried blood, now black, ran from an inch long incision that had been made at the left carotid artery. The blood had flowed around her left eye socket and joined with another streak emanating from the black hole which had once held her eye, then ran into her hair.

Tommy continued his narrative. “The bag was placed over her head probably because he simply didn’t want to have to look at her, as you suspected with the first case. She was obviously killed somewhere else, then dumped here. Otherwise, there would be heavy arterial spraying in evidence,” Ling said, gesturing at the area around them which was free of any blood. “Again, death probably occurred within six to eight hours ago.”

Iggy looked at his watch. Jesus, it was still only seven-fifteen, meaning it would have been noon or so at the outside when she was killed. Then he had brought her here in broad daylight and dropped her under the bridge like a bag of garbage. They were dealing with one sick, psycho, alright, thought Iggy.

As Tommy spoke with Iggy, Jake studied the crowd of people that had gathered around the perimeter of the tape, looking for anybody that halfway resembled the description given to them by Joey, the bartender at The Shack. No such luck. Yet he somehow felt the killer was watching the whole show, getting his kicks.

Then he saw a face he recognized. She raised her hand when their eyes met, and he grimaced to himself when he saw she was holding a mic. A chord was running from the mic to a battery pack, which in turn was attached to a portable reel-to-reel recorder. Shit! Jenny Hastings, reporter for the Daily Courier. He should have realized it was only a matter of time before she would be busting his ass looking for a scoop, so he decided to be proactive.

“Hey Jenny, how are you doing?” Jake said as he walked over to meet her at the tape’s edge.

“Hi Jake, what have you got for me?” Jenny always got straight to the point.

“I’m doin’ fine, thanks for asking,” Jake said with sarcasm. “You don’t mess around with small talk, do you Jen?”

“Not when I have a hot scoop happening, my friend…”

“Well, what you see is what you get. A deceased girl, name unknown at this time. The time, place, and cause of death are also unknown. But hey, Tommy’s got his job to do, so we’ll know more later. After us, you’ll be the first to know. That’s all I got right now Jenny, you know the drill,” Jake said.

Actually, Jenny Hastings basically wrote the drill. She and Jake had developed a good working relationship over the years. In return for professional favors from each other, they were able to maintain a friendship not often shared between the police and the media.

“Okay babe, but remember your buddy, okay,” and she made a sign of holding a phone to her ear with one hand as she pointed at him with the other and left the crowd. Jake turned to go back to the others and as he did, his eyes were drawn to a small shiny object that was lying half buried in loose, dry soil, just inside the tape perimeter. He bent down to retrieve it and saw that it was a key. A small key, different from a regular residential door key, and it had the number ‘51’ etched in the metal surface. Jake didn’t have a clue what it might belong to, but he picked it up, each end held between his thumb and index finger. The key was in perfect condition, not a speck of rust. Obviously, it was not lying here for very long.

When he rejoined the forensics guys, he obtained an evidence bag from Briggs and put the key in it. After discussing his finding with Briggs, the forensics man suggested he take it to a local locksmith who might be able to at least determine what it might belong to. He then made his way back to Iggy who was talking with Tommy Ling over by the ME’s van.

“Hey Jake, I was just going over my initial impressions of this situation with Iggy,” said Tommy. “Once our toxicology reports are back, no doubt we’ll find evidence in her body that she was also drugged.” He then reiterated, in a bit more detail, what he had already told Iggy.

“The ligature marks on her ankles, and the absence of the same on her wrists, indicate something, to me, at least. This says the rope burns on her ankles are not there for restraint purposes, otherwise we’d probably see the same on her wrists. I think they are there because she was strung up with rope and probably hung from a rafter somewhere until she bled out from here,” and he pointed with a pencil to a small slit of approximately one inch in length along her left carotid artery.

“Jesus,” Jake moaned.

The girl’s body was chalk white, essentially devoid of blood. The blackened holes where her eyes had been were in stark contrast to the rest of her pale, naked body. Again, the burn marks were similar to those inflicted on Connie Wong.

“One final indignity,” Iggy noted. “He took her fingertips.”

“Oh Christ!” exclaimed Jake.

“Yeah, seems he wants to make us work. You know, all that much harder for us to identify her…” There was nothing else to add.

Again, they were faced with having to spend a lot of precious time working to first identify the victim. And the black plastic bag that Ling had removed from her head again indicated the killer for some reason was loath to view his prey. Why? Jake wondered. They left the scene for their vehicle since there was nothing further to gain.

“Iggy, I know it’s late but let’s make a quick stop at the Okanagan Locksmith shop on the way home. They have an office here in Westbank, just a block south,” Jake said.

“No problem partner. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something, maybe nothing. We’ll see,” Jake replied, and he showed the evidence bag that contained the key to Iggy. They headed south for Okanagan Locksmith. When they arrived, they were greeted at the locksmith shop by a middle-aged man who was balding and wore a short-cropped, graying beard. “How can I help, boys?” he asked.

Jake then introduced himself and Iggy, showing their badges to the man whose name was Ron Harrison and turned out to be the owner. He also owned two other shops, one in Vernon and another in Penticton.

“We’d like to know what this key might belong to,” asked Jake, and he produced the plastic bag that held the small silver key and showed it to the locksmith. “Looks to be too small for a regular house key.”

“Sure, that’s a boat ignition key,” Harrison stated without any hesitation. He was looking at the key through the small plastic evidence bag. “I recognize it from the shape and the number ‘51’ on the surface. Just a sec’,” and he walked over to a catalogue that hung on a wall over his desk. After a quick look in a drawer, he returned with a book which he showed the detectives. “Yeah, like I said, it belongs to an Evinrude Johnson motor ignition. They were manufactured in 1977, and this is key number fifty-one, the first in their ‘sixty-seven’ series. The key numbers go up to 67 which covers seventeen different engine models.”

“But you can’t tell the type of boat that the engine belonged to, I guess?” Iggy doubtfully asked.

“Nope, but it was to a 225HP Evinrude outboard if that helps, Detective,” offered Harrison.

“It sure does, sir,” said Jake, thanking the owner as they left the shop and headed to their car. On the way to their vehicle Jake told Iggy about finding the key at the latest crime scene, and before leaving the site, he had let Briggs see if there were any prints available on the piece of evidence.

There were none.