Rebecca Godfrey - Under the Bridge

Also by Rebecca Godfrey

The Torn Skirt

SIMON & SCHUSTER
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Copyright 2005 by Rebecca Godfrey

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Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

Manufactured in the United States of America

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Godfrey, Rebecca.

Under the bridge / Rebecca Godfrey.

p. cm.

1. Virk, Reena, 1983-1997. 2. Ellard, Kelly Marie. 3. Glowatski, Warren. 4. MurderBritish Columbia. 5. Juvenile homicideBritish Columbia. 6. MurderInvestigationBritish Columbia. 7. Trials (Murder)British Columbia. 8. Teenage girlsCrimes againstBritish Columbia. I. Title.

HV6535.C32B753 2005

364.15230971128dc22

2005049913

ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-1091-1

ISBN-10: 0-7432-1091-3

eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-8411-0

Photos by: Felicity Don: 305; CH-TV: 294; Christopher Grabowski: 89; Ian Lindsay/Vancouver Sun: 283; Diana Nethercott: 173, 197, 206, 218, 255, 263; Ian Smith/Vancouver Sun: 301. Photos courtesy of: Collection of the Author: 15, 177, 202; Syreeta Hartley: 22; Mukand Pallan: 51; the Virk family: 27, 241.

THE MATERIAL IN this book is derived from author interviews and observations, official records, and court proceedings. Certain conversations have been re-created based on these sources and some names and details have been changed.

Never again are you the same. The longing is to be pure. What you get is to be changed.

Prayer, Jorie Graham

Under the Bridge

You cant see anything. In the dark waters of a saltwater inlet known as the Gorge, Sergeant Bob Wall was underwater, searching for the body of a girl. Though he had been a member of the elite Dive Unit for twelve years and was properly and fully equipped with full scuba gear, insulated underwear, neoprene gloves, a buoyancy compensator, and a twenty-five-pound air tank on his back, his search for the girl was frustrating and difficult because underwater, everything was so dark. His eyes were open as he moved forward, yet he could see only blackness. He would have to look for the girl by feeling alone, feeling and touching the darkness that surrounded him, a cold, black depth below the surface of the world.

Concealed in his black wet suit, Bob Wall moved slowly, twelve inches at a time, while the other men held the rope taut and firm. Under water, he touched the detritus of suburbia. Bicycles, so many bikes. He touched beer bottles and rusted nails and shopping carts. Theres so much junk in the Gorge, the men of the Dive Unit say; they speak of the water as if it is their enemy. The visibilitys awful. The waters crap. You cant see anything.

When youre searching, you like to sink to the bottom, the men say.

You have to use your buoyancy compensator, make yourself negatively buoyant, so youre almost prone on the bottom. It looks as if youre doing a push-up. Youre as far down as you could possibly be.

Blind and feeling everything, Bob Wall touched the sand with a single hand. His other hand held tight to the rope. Two members of the Dive Unit sank with him, keeping the rope as taut as they possibly could, holding on with both hands, holding tight.

The girl who was missing was fourteen years old.

The girl, shed been missing for over a week.

If the terrible rumor were true, she would have sunk to the bottom of the Gorge by now. Sergeant Rick Gos Gosling was glad he was holding the line and not the one doing the physical search. The anticipation of finding a body is so stressful, he explains. You always have that nightmare of finding the face looming up against you, like that scene in Jaws. Youd be pushing yourself against the dark water and knowing you might see a face, lifeless and still. Youd come up against the horror of death, right there, literally, before your eyes. Gos remembered the time hed found an old woman trapped in her sunken Chevrolet. Her eyes met his; the old lady, she looked right at him and he jumped back, feeling nausea and sadness. The old ladys eyes were blue and her mouth was open, as if shed died in the midst of a roar or a song.

Sometimes under water, there would be these strange moments of beauty, a light that would crack through the blackness and the sandstorms. In the darkness, the men say, sometimes, You get swirls, a pale green, a glimmer.

It was a strange occupationlooking for something you didnt really want to find. And on this pale, blurry day in November, the men really didnt want to find the fourteen-year-old girl because it would mean the rumors of murder were true. Youve got to be kidding, Gos said when he heard about who was alleged to have killed the girl. His partners scoffed as well, for the story of her supposed killers seemed such an absurd and impossible tale.

The absence in the water seemed to confirm their disbelief.

If you asked the men why they didnt believe the story, they would answer quite logically. This was Victoria, British Columbia, a small island in the Pacific Northwest famed for its natural beauty and easygoing lifestyle. Young girls did not get murdered in Victoria. Girls in this town, they grew up unharmed. They shopped at Hillside Mall, attended schools named after politicians and war heroes. Girls lived safely on streets named after trees and explorers. Girls may have been murdered in the closest big cities of Vancouver and Seattle; in these cities murders were common and no one would be surprised to hear the story of a young girl brutally murdered. But girls did not die young here on this idyllic island, a sheltered paradise. Gos never before had been asked to investigate the murder of a young girl.

Bob Wall reached the end of the line. Still nothing. The girl was supposed to have been killed right on the sandy shore, near the old white schoolhouse, now covered by lurid yellow crime scene tape.

Gos wished he could look at the sun, get a sense of the time of day. He did not know it was 11:15. He knew only that theyd been underwater for almost an hour. He wanted to lift the seaweed, which was clammy and cold against his cheek, but to remove his hands from the rope would cause the line to flail, cause his partner to drift off his path.

Suddenly, this: a tug on the rope. One tug, then another, then a third. Three tugs was the code for discovery.

All three men rose and left the dark below.

In the eelgrass, Bob Wall had seen something, a pale white strip of fabric. As he moved closer, he reached for the fabric, retrieving it from the rough stalks tinged with a color like ivory. His hands reached in; they found the fabric was a pair of girls underwear. Panties, he would later write in the Dive Unit Operation Log, were retrieved from the eelgrass.

Using a camera floated out to him, Bob Wall photographed the underwear. He then marked the spot with a wooden stick known as a pelican marker. He kicked back to shore and placed the underwear inside a sterile Ziploc bag. Wall flinched slightly as water fell from the bag and as he touched the wet fabric and saw the label, so ordinary and familiar: Fruit of the Loom.