October 9, 1969. Dawdling around the back roads of Oxford County in a pickup truck, Ron Kiddie and Pete Kingma were on a duck-hunting excursion. They were two young guys, rifles in the back, gum in their mouths, listening to the radio and talking shit as they bounced along hills and uneven asphalt. It was uncustomarily warm out, so they rolled down their windows to catch the breeze. The sun was low in the sky. With a little time left before dinner, they stopped to check for birds under the gleaming new concrete bridge over Big Otter Creek. It was shouldered by two hills and two curves — a great dark, low hiding place for water fowl. Ron pulled over next to the narrow bridge. Walking across the short expanse, they each took a side, Ron on the north and Peter on the south, leaning over the guardrail as far as they could.

“Hey Peter,” called Ron. “Come see this.”

Peter checked for traffic before crossing over. On this road, with the sharp turns and steep incline, they were hidden and trapped if a speeding automobile came over the hill.

“There’s a body,” said Ron, pointing down.

Peter looked. “Oh, that’s just a dummy.” To prove his point, he went and got his gun out of the truck to look down through the scope. As he squinted, he became very still and then slowly looked up at Ron. “There’s a ring on her finger,” he muttered.

Without hesitation, Ron skidded down the steep banks of the creek to find out what was going on. “I can see [pubic] hair,” he shouted, as Peter followed. “And a vaccination mark on her arm!” On the edge of the water, he stumbled and accidentally stepped in the water. “Well, I’m wet now,” he said, turning his head and looking back. “I better wade in and see before we call the police.”

He felt the frigid water creeping up his legs as he pushed through the muck, the soft creekbed beneath his boots. He could see goosebumps on her flesh, her face floating just beneath the surface of the murky water. Her chin was tilted up, as if she were calling out for help. Her left arm and breast protruded from the shallow creek, naked white in the fading fall sunlight, and her right hand floated in a fist, her young finger decorated with a black Alaskan diamond ring.

In a sleepy London, Ontario, neighbourhood, fifty-year-old OPP Detective Dennis Alsop had just sat down to dinner. He was grabbing a quick bite to eat before heading out again to pick up his fifteen-year-old daughter Daphne, who would soon be finishing up at her ballet class.

The phone rang and he answered.

“They found her.”