The Birds of Connaught Park: Chapter 1

The Birds of Connaught Park



Chapter 1 – The Incident

It had been a cruel day for the men of Concentration Camp number nineteen. The blizzard made it impossible to pursue the usual work, but no rest was to be had.

Instead, they were made to fetch firewood for the Hotel in Banff, while guests enjoyed indoor pleasures like meals and spa treatments. Deep ribbons of snow were cleared at every door, and ice was hewn away from the rooftops and passageways. Dr. Jack Ryerson treated dozens of sprains, fractures, and the usual respiratory and cold symptoms. He dealt with the despair too, which deepened when the men worked around the hotel. Through the glowing windows, they saw gentlemen in smoking jackets, swirling cognac in their soft hands. It was the Canada they had dreamed of when they came. The sweet, musky smells of roasted meats escaped from the kitchen, taunting them with empty promises.

After a late dinner involving stale bread and some sort of lumpy soup, the doctor’s eyelids were heavy. He tried to read in his tiny bed, but tired quickly. Still, the brightness of the moon held back his sleep long enough for one happy thought. The war was almost over. They would all be home before Christmas.

Then, someone was shaking him.

“Wake up. Doctor, wake up.”

He was ready to be upset, but he knew the rumbling voice even before opening his eyes. It was Captain Leicester himself. He had never been personally called upon by the commander, who had almost 300 subordinates for that sort of thing.

“A prisoner escaped the grounds and was shot. Come immediately.”

His thick eyebrows were knit, and his bearded mouth was a dark line. Dr. Ryerson knew enough to rule out compassion as the reason for it. He found his glasses and reached for a lamp.

“No lights doctor, and hold your questions. Let’s not disturb anyone,” he whispered.

Dr. Ryerson dressed in the moonlight. Attempting not to crunch the snow as they passed through the camp gates, he muffled a shuddering yawn that set his teeth to chattering. The gates were unlocked and the guards off their posts.

Strange!

A lorry was idling up the road behind some trees. Captain Leicester took the wheel and pulled ahead, pampering the engine. Dr. Ryerson had never seen the commander drive his own vehicle. The Rockies cast their gigantic silhouettes against the stars, a solemn backdrop for the Doctor’s growing confusion.

Why would anybody escape now?

In the rearview mirror, the fence around the concentration camp bristled with frozen wire. It looked impenetrable.

“Captain, how was he able to get outside?”

“He overpowered a guard. Took their keys.”

Overpowered a guard? The guards were armed and usually in pairs. He tried to picture which of the prisoners had the physical strength to overpower two armed guards.

“Who was it?”

“We’ll know at roll call. His wounds make identification…difficult.”

“He has a facial injury?”

“Yes.”

“Who is with him now?”

“He’s alone. I tracked him down myself. I expected him to surrender when I pointed a shotgun at his face, but the fool attacked me. He took it between the eyes for his trouble.”

“He’s not likely to survive that then, is he?”

The doctor spoke calmly, but confusion was turning to suspicion. It was too much to imagine that Captain Leicester had pursued a prisoner. He wondered too about the shotgun - why the pistol in his holster hadn’t been enough. His own pistol was in his nightstand. He suddenly wished he’d worn it.

They’d travelled ten minutes before the truck stopped at the side of the road. It was a long way for a fugitive to have made it into the mountain pass, away from the hotel and villages. At this elevation, the trees along the road were sparse, and the evergreens were craggy sticks with tufts of needles. The doctor began to shiver again.

“Come,” said the Captain. Instantly, they were in a narrow clearing bordered by the road behind them and a cliff fifty yards on. There, he saw the body, bent at the knees, a spray of cranial matter in the bluish snow behind him. The facial profile was concave and ragged.

I’m obviously not here to provide medical attention.

“Our prisoner is quite dead,” said the Captain as they approached.

“Quite dead indeed! Poor fellow,” he said, because that was something he would normally say. The man had been shot at short range, snapping his neck like a rag doll, blowing most of his teeth through the back of his head. The doctor noted that he wore no boots and no coat. Feeling inept, he nevertheless closed his eyes and recited a silent prayer. The shivering began to subside.

“There isn’t much for you to do here, doctor. He’s not in any pain, I assure you,” he said, repeating a favorite witticism, “I have an early morning with the architects. Our work plans need to change because of the snow. I filled out the death certificate before waking you. He attacked me, and we can obviously see what he died from. I want you to sign it, and we can go back to bed. I’ll have him collected in the morning.”

It sounded like an order, but the dismissive way he talked about ‘collecting him’ irked the doctor. He was a medic first, and an officer by strict necessity.

“You really did not see who this man was, Captain?”

“Doctor, I don’t want this to take all night. Of course I didn’t, it’s night time.”

Captain Leicester’s scornful tone provoked him. The death certificate was a lie, a cover up. The markings in the snow revealed that the two men had been walking together, almost side by side. He could then see where the man had been tripped and pushed down on his face. He was probably shot as he tried to get back up. The blood spray showed that he was low to the ground, on his knees, and judging by the proximity of his hand prints, they were tied together. For some unfathomable reason, the senior commander had deliberately killed this man.

“Sir, I can’t very well sign a death certificate like a blank check. I could lose my medical license.”

Captain Leicester regarded him like a dumb cow that had walked onto a bustling road.

“Doctor, I must insist. Surely this incident is not your foremost concern. The war is almost over, and you have a comfortable situation waiting for you on the outside.”

“I accept the facts as you have described them Captain,” he lied. “I just want some better light to read this and make notes before affixing my signature to it. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“You can read it fine in the moonlight.”

“Yes. And yet somehow, you didn’t recognize this man before shooting him.”

The Captain’s neck stiffened as if he had been struck, and his jaw tightened. He spoke slowly, as if to a very dull-witted child.

“How incredibly stupid of you to be so clever, Sargent. You show no understanding of rank and subordination. Next time a superior officer gives you a direct order, the only answer is YES SIR! But then again, there won’t be a next time. I’ll have the doctor from the hotel sign both your death certificates and the world can go on without you…”

He reached for his pistol. The doctor took a stumbling step back.

“Captain! You can’t be serious? You can’t just shoot two men and expect to get off. There will be inquiries.”

The doctor took another step backwards as the Captain took aim.

“There won’t be any inquiries at all. The prisoner surprised us when you arrived, unarmed me and shot you through the head before I could reach my shotgun. When he attacked me, I killed him in self-defense. How does it feel to be outsmarted by…what…where?”

He was talking to nobody. The doctor was suddenly gone. It took a second for him to realize that he had jumped from the cliff. He was angry that his plans had gone awry. But then he realized the doctor must be badly injured -- probably dead. Maybe this would work out just as well: the white-gloved doctor cracked, and ran off into the woods. He waited for the light of early dawn and crawled to the edge, afraid to slide off like grease on a skillet. He saw the doctor’s body in a snow drift under a lonely tree, his legs bent unnaturally. Birds of prey came overhead, anxious for fresh carrion. Perfect.