As soon as we were on the road back to Cornwallis Cove, I asked Catherine if she’d told George about my finding Rex’s body. My cranky tone probably gave away my suspicions that she had betrayed my confidence.
“It’s not exactly a trade secret,” Catherine huffed. “I have sources in the detachment other than you, you know. You’re my friend, not a source, okay?”
The sun, though low in the sky, sent shafts of golden light through the trees along the highway. I glanced in my rear-view mirror at Grace. She had fallen asleep using my parka as a pillow.
“Isn’t Rafe gorgeous?” Catherine mused.
“A little short for my taste.” Is this woman man crazy? First it was Will she was raving about. Now she’s gaga over this guy after one meeting. Give me a break.
“We have so much in common. And he was so sweet to Grace. Oh, Linda, that smile. I could have slid under the table every time he flashed those beautiful teeth at me.”
Doesn’t she know they’re probably caps?
Catherine invited me for supper and a movie later. I declined. Day off or not, the Rex Dare files were waiting for me.
When I pulled into Catherine’s laneway Grace was still asleep, so I offered to carry her inside. The wind had died down and a huge red sun hovered above the horizon. Our houses were among six old farms built on narrow strips of cultivated land on the hillsides over Cornwallis Cove. Below the road the tree-covered hill fell steeply to the water. I paused to take in the beauty of my neighbourhood. Am I trying to punish Catherine by refusing to eat with her? I pushed the thought aside.
Through the bare maple trees the cove was in shadow, its water dark but sparkling with reflected light. The tide was high. At low tide the wide expanse of water would turn into vast tracts of mudflats. The big bare maples along the road cast their shadows on the muted pastel colours of the homes and the brown fields dotted with patches of wet snow. The reflected sun glared in the second-storey window of the house just beyond Catherine’s. I squinted in the blazing light.
As soon as I scooped up Grace from the back seat she woke up and flung her arms around my neck. Her cheek felt warm against my chin.
Inside Catherine’s chilly kitchen I set Grace on her feet so we could remove our boots. Catherine moved to the stove and sighed as she poked the cold ashes. She began crumpling newspaper into balls and stuffing them into the firebox. I saw she had no kindling and her woodbox was empty, so I hauled my boots back on and brought an armload of wood in. I made a second trip and found some pieces of bark and smaller dry pieces of wood that would help get the fire going. I lay the kindling on top of Catherine’s crumpled newspapers and watched as she lit the papers and the flames licked them. A papery ash floated up. Catherine seemed so disorganized and unable to take care of herself.
But was she?
Chapter 8: The Molested
Back at my place I slid the kettle on the hot part of the stove and arranged the Rex Dare files on the kitchen table. First, I read the lawyers’ summations at the end of the trial transcript.
According to Crown Prosecutor Michael Ross Rex Dare had orchestrated the ritual sexual abuse of a group of five children. One of them was his daughter Becky. Though Rex hadn’t actually taken part in the sexual acts himself, he had procured the children for other adults. All of the children were violated, some of them repeatedly. What I read revolted me. But I had to admit the prosecution didn’t have much of a case. The children’s testimony was contradictory and the adults’ was bizarre and unbelievable. The chief witness was Rex’s ex-wife Cindy.
Rex had a first-class lawyer from Halifax. He tore the children’s testimony to shreds because the Crown had no corroborating evidence. Through expert witnesses he showed how the evidence resembled the lies and accusations in the daycare trials of the 1980s when satanic ritual abuse, or SRA, was the fad and many innocent people went to jail. He brought forward evidence from the ’90s when these cases were discredited. Rex’s lawyer tore apart the social worker Margaret Roach. An expert from the United States said Roach’s leading questions planted suggestions in the witnesses’ minds. Another expert described how rumours of satanic ritual abuse are a form of hysteria overwhelming a community experiencing other stresses, such as high unemployment. Well, Sterling County had its share of economic problems. Where had Rex found the money to mount a defence like this?
I opened a cardboard file from the detachment evidence room. Among the file folders were several videos labelled with the names of the five violated children. I popped Becky Dare’s tape into the VCR.
A blonde five-year-old girl came on the screen. She resembled Becky, the little girl I’d seen that day at the church, but much younger. Instead of that simpering, sexually precocious child the video showed a frightened, vulnerable, deeply traumatized little girl. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. These are the tapes of Margaret Roach’s interviews the judge had ruled inadmissible.
“Did your daddy touch you on your private parts?” Margaret asked off-camera.
“No.” Becky squirmed. She seemed uncomfortable. Scared.
“Did your daddy tell other men to touch you on your private parts?”
“My daddy was the devil.” Her remarks were odd, as if she were describing what he wore for Halloween. Her eyes had glassed over.
“Did your daddy kill a baby?”
“The baby was on fire. I have to go potty.” She was acting coy and squirming.
There was a moment of static, then Becky was back on-camera five minutes later according to the time code.
“What happened when your daddy killed the baby?”
“He was the devil. He danced around a fire. He tied me up.”
“What happened when he tied you up?”
“A man with a donkey head hurt me.”
“How did he hurt you, Becky? Can you show me with these dolls?”
It took several minutes as Margaret coached Becky using anatomically correct dolls to piece together what sounded like an orgy involving men wearing animal masks, dancing around a fire, and sexually abusing Becky and the other children. Yes, the social worker was asking leading questions, but Becky’s testimony deeply disturbed me.
Toward the end of the interview something happened to Becky that gave me chills. The shy little girl transformed into a brazen foul-mouthed gnome. An Academy Award-winning actor could not have done a better job. Suddenly, she was talking about sexual acts most adults have never heard of in the most eerie, repulsive way imaginable. Was this multiple personality disorder? I had read about it, but had never seen anything like this. I clutched the recliner’s leather arms, my palms clammy. No wonder ignorant, superstitious people confused mental illness with demonic possession.
The tape creeped me out so much I checked the locks on the doors and turned on every light downstairs. Then I listened to the other children’s interviews. One described Rex as a priest with a long black robe. They all mentioned a baby, but one said it was thrown into the fire, another said its head was cut off. Still another said it was stabbed. It sounded to me like these kids had watched too many heavy metal videos or cheap horror movies.
Margaret Roach praised the children every time they made a lurid accusation. She did seem to be rewarding them for giving the answers she wanted.
There were three consistent elements in the children’s testimonies. Rex Dare played some role, though what he was described as doing varied wildly. Each of the children did show physical evidence of repeated sexual abuse.
The abuse involving Rex allegedly took place in the “Pizza House.” Where was that? I thumbed through the more than three