The Office and Sparky: Chapter Thirteen

Fisgard Lighthouse, Esquimalt Harbour, Victoria, B.C.

It's public knowledge that the name of the Ministry I work at has been changed to the Ministry of the Environment and Climate Change. It's less well known what, exactly, that means. 

One thing it means for sure is at least three different parts of the department I work in will have to forget their petty squabbles and learn to work together.

This sounds like -- and has proven so far to be -- a scene from a predictable sitcom.

Everyone accuses everyone else of the same high crimes: "they don't tell us what they're working on... we are asked to review materials at the last minute... they don't include our changes in the final documents..."

TV has taught me that people eventually overcome their differences. What I'd like to do now is fast forward over all the hilarity and get to the group hug. 

Then maybe we could get some work done around here. Once everyone gets back from vacation, that is.  


Sparky's Funtime Summertime Murder Mystery
Chapter Thirteen 

Sparky here. This is Chapter Thirteen of my story about how Gerry Ringbold met his untimely end. The story starts here.

Once Gerry was dead, the news circulated almost immediately that he used illegal drugs. 

Everyone came into the washroom carrying the news. One habitué - a long-time resident at a nearby women's shelter - claimed she knew Gerry's dealer. 

Some even said he came to the Gardens, under the influence, looking for more. 

Here's a sample conversation, carried on between two young women in tennis clothes, over the noise of peeing, flushing, hand washing and Dyson air blades.

"They say he like smoked crack and was like high all the time..."

"Like I told you, he was totally like wasted all the time..."

"Totally wasted, like what a loser..."

"But the police like they don't know a thing about it..."

"Like, they're totally lame ..."

"Totally. They like completely suck ..."

"Yeah, the cops suck... Like Craig told me that the dead guy like bought drugs from the guys that like hang at the other end of the park..."

"What guys? Like there's no guys. Craig's a loser ..."

"No. Don't be like a bitch. Craig's OK. Like it's not just like Craig that says that. I've heard like from a lot of people that there's like lots of drugs for sale here ..."

"Uh huh... Like OK. Like just don't talk to Craig ... He's like the world's biggest douchebag."

"The dead guy's like the world's biggest douchebag. Such a loser..."

"Yeah. Loser."

Before their restoration, the Gardens had been a hot spot for all kinds of criminal activity including the sale and consumption of illegal drugs. But that all changed with the Peony MacDonald Chester Foundation for the Public Enjoyment of the Thompson Gardens. The disruption on the site during the countless assessments and the construction of multiple buildings flushed the regulars from their holes. All of the dealers and hookers had moved on from the Gardens, not far, mind you, but they did move. 

That fact, plus the 24/7 security presence including foot patrols and camera surveillance, made it unlikely that Gerry Ringbold or anyone came to the Gardens looking for drugs.

Still, except for the police and me, everyone around here agrees that looking for drugs in the Gardens is just what Gerry was doing the night he died.

You can read Chapter Fourteen here.