Chapter 4: Beneath the Surface

 Welcome to Chapter 4

In Chapter 3, we stepped into the troubled mind of Ian McLeod—a man burdened by legacy, fractured by family, and haunted by choices that left him bitter and alone.

As Ian’s carefully cultivated image collapsed, so too did his control over the farm, his sons, and the ghosts of a marriage long lost. His final months revealed a man quietly desperate for redemption—but unwilling or unable to seek it aloud.

Now, in Chapter 4, the investigation into Ian’s disappearance deepens. Detective Jean Lavallee begins to peel back the layers of silence that surround the McLeod family. Truths that have been buried—like secrets in the Blackstone soil—are about to surface.

What really happened to Ian McLeod? And how much did those closest to him know

Chapter 4

 

The Suspects and the Detective

 

The Evening of the Day the Body was Discovered:

 

Gerald and Jerome McLeod:

 

Paul O’Grady, LLP, QC, of Brighton, Quebec, sat across from his clients, Gerald, and Jerome McLeod, in the stark, fluorescent-lit interrogation room of the Harris Bay jail. The harsh light washed over every line of tension in the brothers’ faces, turning the sterile room into a crucible of unease.

 

Gerald leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating defiance. His dark eyes studied O’Grady with a calculated intensity, as though challenging the lawyer to make the first move. Beside him, Jerome sat hunched forward, his hands fidgeting endlessly with the zipper of his jacket. The contrast was striking—Gerald’s stillness was a performance of control, while Jerome’s every twitch betrayed his unraveling nerves.

 

O’Grady adjusted his glasses, his sharp gaze flicking between the two. His expression remained impassive, but inwardly he was cataloging every tick, every glance, every subtle shift. Gerald was too composed. Jerome, too close to breaking.

 

“So,” O’Grady began, his tone as sharp as the edges of the table between them, “your father decided to leave without telling anyone where he was going?”

 

Gerald didn’t miss a beat. “He said he needed a break.” His voice was calm, measured, almost too smooth.

 

Jerome chimed in, his voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, uh, he mentioned heading west. Said he wanted to see Vancouver. Something about a girlfriend there.”

 

O’Grady leaned back slightly, one eyebrow arching. “A girlfriend?” His voice carried the faintest edge of skepticism. “And this ‘girlfriend’ has a name?”

 

Jerome stammered, “We … we don’t know. He never told us her name.”

 

“Convenient,” O’Grady said, his dry tone laced with sarcasm. He let the word hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “Your uncle George seems to think Ian wasn’t the type to take off without telling someone—least of all without a plan. And you’re saying he just left?”

 

Gerald shrugged, his calm exterior unbroken. “Dad didn’t trust Uncle George much. They never agreed completely. He didn’t have to tell him everything.”

 

“Uh-huh.” O’Grady’s sharp gaze lingered on Gerald before shifting to Jerome. “And Ian’s car? It hasn’t moved in weeks—aside from you two driving it around Brighton.”

 

For a brief second, Gerald’s jaw tightened, a flash of irritation breaking through his calm. “We didn’t want it sitting there, collecting snow. It’s Dad’s car, not evidence.”

 

O’Grady leaned forward slightly, his tone hardening. “It is evidence, Gerald. Everything is evidence right now. And you’d better hope your story holds up, because once the autopsy comes back, the police are going to have a lot more to say about what happened to your father.”

 

The room grew heavier with tension. Jerome’s foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the floor as he avoided O’Grady’s piercing gaze. Gerald, by contrast, leaned forward, a flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Our story is the truth,” he said evenly.

 

O’Grady didn’t flinch. “Let me be clear: You don’t say a word to the police without me present. No details, no embellishments. You stick to the basics. Understood?”

 

Gerald gave a slow nod, but his faint smirk lingered, as though testing O’Grady’s patience. “Understood.”

 

Jerome nodded as well, clutching the edge of the table as though it could anchor him. “Yeah, okay. We got it.”

 

O’Grady rose from his chair, gathering his notes with deliberate precision. His eyes lingered on the brothers one last time. “If you’re hiding anything—and I mean anything—now’s the time to tell me. Because if I walk into court blindsided, there’s no fixing it.”

 

The silence that followed was telling. Gerald met his gaze with quiet defiance, the smirk now fully formed. Jerome, unable to hold the stare, looked down at the floor, his hands trembling slightly.

 

O’Grady sighed inwardly. These two were a storm waiting to break—and he wasn’t sure who’d get caught in the fallout. Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving the brothers alone with their silence and their secrets.

 

Detective Jean Lavallee:

 

Detective Jean Lavallee sipped his coffee, staring out the frost-covered window of Mrs. Beatrice O’Hare’s boarding house. The morning light struggled to pierce the overcast sky, the kind of gray, snow-laden gloom that reminded him of long winters spent working cases that felt just as cold.

 

Harris Bay. A name that whispered of his childhood and a life he had worked hard to leave behind. Mrs. O’Hare didn’t recognize him; he hadn’t expected her to. Years ago, he had delivered the Ottawa Journal to her house. She’d always been kindly in her brisk, no-nonsense way, but Jean had no intention of jogging her memory. Harris Bay wasn’t a place for ambitious young men to return to unless they had no choice.

 

He could still see it: his father, an itinerant farm worker, labouring alongside his two workhorses on farms scattered across Pontiac County. Those horses were Jean’s responsibility when he was barely old enough to hoist a bucket of water. As the youngest son, he was spared the fields but not the long days of mucking, feeding, and brushing. His older brothers worked the earth: seeding, raking, cutting, baling, and stacking hay.

 

Everything changed in 1948 when Jean turned thirteen. His father sold the horses, and the family moved into a rented house along the river. Jean took a job delivering newspapers, a small but steady income that, coupled with the encouragement of the parish priest, allowed him to attend boarding school in Hull, Quebec. It was there, far from the constraints of Harris Bay, that he glimpsed the life he could have.

 

Yet the town left its scars. His family fractured in the 1970s, with most of his siblings heading west to Alberta in search of better wages. His younger sister Patsy, however, never had the chance. In 1952, while Jean was away during his first year at boarding school, Patsy, aged 15, was found dead in the forest—a bullet in her head. Her death—a mystery that haunted him to this day—was the catalyst for his career. He had joined the Sûreté not just to leave Harris Bay but to confront the questions left unanswered in his own life. Still, he preferred that people didn’t remember him. Memories of Patsy’s death had a way of resurfacing with uncomfortable questions, ones he couldn’t afford to entertain while on the job.

 

Now, decades later, he was back, summoned to investigate Ian McLeod’s murder three days after his body was discovered. Two decades in law enforcement had taught him that small-town crimes often hid deep-rooted complexities: family feuds, buried secrets, and grudges that lingered like ghosts.

 

At fifty-three, Lavallee had the broad, solid build of a man who had traded youthful speed for deliberate endurance. His sharp instincts, however, had only grown keener. He approached every case like a chess match, anticipating his opponent’s moves and taking the long view.

 

The Next Morning:

 

By 8 a.m., he was seated in Sergeant Gilbert’s office, reviewing the initial case notes. Gilbert, a capable but young officer, briefed him on the situation.

 

“Ian McLeod’s two eldest sons are the primary suspects,” Gilbert said, passing Lavallee a file. “Gerald and Jerome. We’ve got them in custody, but their story … it doesn’t add up.”

 

“They claim Ian left for Vancouver with a girlfriend,” Lavallee said, scanning the summary.

 

“Right,” Gilbert replied, rolling his eyes. “Except his car’s here, and his brother George insists Ian would never leave without telling someone.”

 

Lavallee nodded. “And no sign of a weapon?”

 

“Not yet. George mentioned Ian kept a rifle, but it’s missing.”

 

“What about the youngest son?” Lavallee asked, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Peter,” Gilbert said. “Seventeen. Lives with his mom in Brighton. Says he didn’t know anything about his dad’s plans.”

 

“Not much of an alibi for the older brothers, then,” Lavallee mused, rubbing his chin.

 

“Here are their statements,” Gilbert said, handing over the transcripts. “Honestly, they feel rehearsed. Gerald’s confident, but Jerome … he’s a mess. Jumpy as hell.”

 

Lavallee offered a faint smile. “Rehearsed stories only work until someone trips over the script. We’ll start there—separate them, see who stumbles first.”

 

Lavallee closed the file, his focus sharpening. His calm confidence, tempered by years of experience and unflinching determination, told him one thing: the truth, however tangled, would surface. It always did—one deliberate move at a time.

 

Lavallee’s Notes:

 

      1.  Vancouver trip - Verify Ian’s plans or connections out west.

      2.  The girlfriend - Establish whether she exists or is a fabrication.

      3.  Family dynamics - Investigate tensions, especially Gerald’s marijuana business.

      4.  Financial motives - Check for debts or recent changes to Ian’s will.

      5.  The rifle - Locate it and match it to any wounds described in the autopsy.

      6.  Timeline - Determine when Ian McLeod died.

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