Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  Pitchfork was the first case in which "DNA fingerprinting" was used. The RCMP was quick to jump on the genetic bandwagon. Molecular Genetics became a service centralized at the Ottawa Lab. But now the demand for genetic comparison of body fluid or tissue samples from crime scenes with suspects was exploding. The logistical problems in sending all exhibits from across Canada to one lab prompted Ottawa to decentralize. A top geneticist—Colin Wood—had been sent west to set up DNA testing here.

  Rachel parked in the Lab lot and ran through the driving rain, umbrella protecting the tunic she carried double-sheathed in clear dry-cleaner's bags. As she was buzzed in the Laboratory door, the Craven case exhibit woman came out.

  "What's with the tunic?"

  'Til explain later. Who took the Biology exhibits from you?"

  "Dermott Toop."

  "Did he go back upstairs?"

  "No, I think he's still in the Exhibit Receiving Room."

  Rachel signed in at the front counter just inside the automatic door, then crossed to the receiving room. The room was small with a clock on the wall, cupboards, fridge, and a desk. On the desk was the box of exhibits

  she'd checked for "continuity" after the autopsy this morning, including the Vacutainer samples of Dora's blood. The black man who sat on the edge of the desk reading a Request for Analysis form looked up as Rachel knocked on the jamb. The sight of her spread a smile across his face.

  The corporal entered and closed the door.

  The forensic specialist approached and gave her a lingering kiss. "Bed was cold without you last night," he whispered.

  "Big case. You'll have to wait. We can't do it here."

  "Why not? Exhibit Receiving Room? Have I got an exhibit for you."

  "Flash that offensive weapon and I'll turn you in."

  "All I'm asking. That we turn in."

  "Maybe tonight, if I'm not lynched on the northern forty by then." Kidd backed off and held the Red Serge tunic out to Toop. "Blood on the cuff. I think he's the killer. And I better be right."

  "Girl," he said. "What have you done?"

  "My job," she replied.

  There was nothing like past British Colonies—the present Commonwealth—to teach an outsider the meaning of "ethnocentric." Native Canadians lived here at least ten thousand years before British "discovery," but they were labeled Canadians nonetheless. Carder, Champlain, and La Salle explored New France, but after the Plains of Abraham were French Canadians. Chinese Canadians and Indo-Canadians and other ethics were labeled, but British Canadians don't exist. They're simply Canadians of historically pure stock, in the same way Brits are unlabeled Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, Rhodesians, and the rest.

  African-American Canadian, that's what Rachel was.

  The label felt like Kidd was dragging a train.

  African was the last word she felt applied to her. Except for the brand of skin color, there was no proof of the link. Sometime before the Civil War her genes arrived as slaves—perhaps on the boat of the man who penned "Amazing Grace"—but from where, when, how, and why were long lost.

  Central Africa, surely, as her skin was the blackest black.

  Dermott Toop was the color of a coconut shell.

  She envied him his history and anchor in the past.

  Toop was not adrift.

  African-Canadian firmly applied to him. His great-granddad had "washed his spear" in the Anglo-Zulu War, distinguishing himself at Rorke's Drift and Ulundi. His dad was born in 1923, when Colonial whites consolidated their economic stranglehold on the country. Blacks were merely a source of cheap South African labor. Pay was a pittance to toil in the mines, where his dad saw blacks killed in accidents by the hundreds. In the forties, he joined the ANC, and organized strikes challenging white domination. Defying the "kaffir regulations" in 1952, he was jailed for being on the street after eight without special permission. He sat on benches for Europeans Only, and then in 1956, was almost whipped to death for having sex with a white woman.

  Up to 1960, the African National Congress espoused passive resistance. That changed in March after sixty-nine blacks were killed in Sharpeville during a protest against the pass laws. Toop's dad died in that massacre by South African police, which turned the civil rights movement into civil war.

  "My mom came to Canada as a refugee," he said, the last time he and Rachel lay in bed. "After she married here, she had me sent out."

  "Ever been back?"

  "No, but I want to. I may take a job in forensics there after the election."

  "I'll miss you."

  "You could come. Together we could help rebuild South Africa's police."

  "Not my frontier," Rachel said.

  African firmly applied to him, but not to her. In Kidd's case, the label was a control device. Invisible apartheid papers of Multicult. Be proud of your outside heritage, just as we unlabeled Canadians inside are proud of ours.

  Good fences make good neighbors.

  Amen, Rachel thought.

  Subsections in the Forensic Lab changed as science advanced. So encompassing was the DNA revolution that it recently shrank their number to eight. Hair and Fiber, Serology, and Molecular Genetics combined as

  Biology. A cop with exhibits for the Lab filled out a Request for Analysis form. The form Toop was reading covered Biology testing of the exhibits in the box. Rachel wrote out a new form for Nick Craven's tunic.

  "I think Corporal Craven bludgeoned his mom/' she said. "Dressed for the Regimental Dinner last night, he wore a topcoat over his Red Serge. Blood spattered the coat, which he then removed, and the cuff of his tunic bared when he clubbed her."

  "Craven's right-handed?"

  "Yeah, I checked. Samples of Dora's blood from the autopsy are in that box. Are you set up to do forensic DNA analysis yet?"

  "Just," Toop said.

  "Derm, I'm out on a limb. This case could bring me down. Screw it up and the old white guard will have my black ass. If the blood on the cuff isn't Dora's, I'm royally fucked."

  "The DNA jockey setting us up is a genetic whiz. Wood's back tomorrow and I'll give him the tunic first thing. He'll test it himself and you'll have results by the end of the month."

  "Three weeks." Rachel sighed. "Tenterhook time."

  "Don't worry." Dermott winked. "The only one royally fucking you is gonna be me."

  WHITEWASH

  Though it went unmentioned, the incident yawned between them, dividing the two men along the fissure of race. When you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you, Nietzsche wrote. So neither man looked down.

  Chan's great-great-grandfather had worked the Cariboo mines, emigrating to Canada in 1859. Not once in five generations had the family left B.C., until joining the Mounted took Eric to Hong Kong.

  When China reopened to tourists in 1979, Chan con-

  vinced his daughter Peggy, then eighteen, to undertake a pilgrimage back to her roots. He thought the family too Western, and not Chinese enough. Peggy embarked on the journey to please her dad.

  From Canton, she took the train west to Kunming, then through Hunan and Guangxi toward Guizhou, hunting a part of China tourists had yet to see. Find somewhere untainted by the West, Chan had said, then imagine what it was like before the gunboats arrived. She sat in the swaying railcar, Walkman clamped to her ears, listening to Bruce Springsteen as the rural farms slipped by. After Guiyang she ate some fruit, which gave her diarrhea.

  Most of that afternoon was spent in the railcar's toilet, a shit-spattered hole open to the tracks. One attack came on so fast she almost didn't make it, a desperate dash during which the stereo fell to the floor. With no time to stop, she left the Walkman behind, and when she returned it was gone.

  Sign language and faltering Cantonese apprised the ticket-taker of her plight. He joined Peggy in a search of the train. Two cars forward they found the amazed thief, a senile old man in peasant's rags stroking his dangling mustache. Wide-eyed, he sat bolt upright for all to see, marveling at The Boss's
Born to Run. The ticket-taker ripped the Walkman from his ears.

  The train pulled into the next station as Peggy returned to her seat. No doubt the old man had heard the Walkman playing on the floor, and unable to find its owner had toyed with curiosity. Smiling, Peggy decided to find him and let him listen for a while. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the window.

  The old man stood shaking on the platform outside, flanked by members of the Gong An Ju. The Public Security cops wore green with peaked army caps, yellow headbands distinguishing them from the Red Army. One cop stepped back as the other drew his gun. Peggy screamed "No!" as the old man was shot through the head. Blood spattered the window, then one cop waved, pleased to be of service to China's new friends. The train pulled out of the station as Peggy began to shake.

  Chan met his daughter at the airport and drove her home. Not a word was spoken along the way. Then came

  the nightmares, insomnia, and depression, followed by attempted suicide. First Peggy was in therapy, then in Riverview. Each weekend, Eric and his wife visited her there. Finally, six months ago, they brought her home, and DeClercq was invited to dinner that Friday to celebrate. The Chans lived close to Special X so the Mount-ies walked.

  "You're a new man," Eric said, "since Katt moved in."

  "Redemption," Robert agreed. "She rescued me from myself."

  "And the dog?"

  "Good as new. You'd never know he was stabbed. He loves Katt and she loves him. Been a long time since I felt this good."

  "Me, too," Eric said.

  "It's working out? Peggy being home?"

  "She has her ups and downs, but Sally is ecstatic. Having our only child home has—"

  Hammering.

  Frantic hammering from the house as they turned in the gate, hammering, hammering, hammering as if a life-and-death race to get someone out, or keep someone in. The men ran to the door, which Eric unlocked. Hammering banged above. The men ran up the stairs. Sally kneeled in the hall with hammer and chisel in hand. The men ran to the door, which she was trying to chip open. "Peggy's locked in," Sally cried on the verge of hysteria. Water seeped out from under the door to creep slowly down the hall.

  A decade had passed since DeClercq had last waxed a door, but like riding a bike, once learned, the technique stays, so bracing himself, back and hands against the opposite wall, he pushed off hard and pistoned his foot toward the lock, slamming the wood beside it which shrieked in protest as it gave, bursting into the bathroom behind a spray of splinters.

  Naked, Peggy sprawled submerged in the overflowing tub. Sightless eyes stared up from below through black hair on the surface. Beside the tub were empty vials of pills, and an open bottle of Javex bleach. The smell of the chemical wafted strong in the mist as the whitewash

  leeched color from her blistering skin. Scrawled across the mirror in lipstick was i loathe my race.

  Sally choked and buried her face in Eric's chest.

  Shock leeched color from her husband's face.

  'Take her downstairs," Robert said, "and I'll take care of this."

  Though it went unmentioned, the incident yawned between them, dividing the two men along the fissure of race. It was there, but there were more pressing matters to discuss.

  Every organization has terms for those at the top. At "E" Division Headquarters it was The Third Floor or The Brass. The deputy commissioner's office was on the third floor of the Operations Building. "You're wanted on The Third Floor" was the summons, so Robert splashed up Heather from 33rd to 37th, and climbed the stairs to Eric's new domain. The change in rank had switched who went to whom.

  "Go right in," said the DCs assistant, feeding a computer on the desk guarding the door.

  Spacious but not ostentatious, the third floor office was 24 by 12. The wide executive desk to the left was backed by windows overlooking the entrance court, a view denied—the joke said—to those groveling on the carpet. The beige carpet stretched across to a pair of love seats, wing-back chair, coffee table, and plants in the far corner, where those not "on the carpet" could relax. There, from a love seat, Chan motioned DeClercq to the wing-back chair.

  "There's hell to pay," Chan said, "over the Somali ERT assault. An all-white team guns down a ten-year-old black boy with a TV remote in his hand. Watching early-morning cartoons, for God's sake."

  "Special O got it wrong," said DeClercq. "The tip was the traffickers rented Alpha Half. The watchers saw them in and out of Bravo Half all day, so we took down both sides to nab them all. Turns out a mom and her son lived in Bravo Half. The Alpha plumbing plugged, so she let them use her toilet."

  "A black mom. And black son,' emphasized Chan.

  "A tragedy no matter what color," said DeClercq.

  "No, a bigger tragedy because of color. After Jack was killed last night, a radio station opened a special line so

  callers could extend condolences. Instead, what came is ethnics screaming "Racism!" and "Nazis!", white exclu-sionists decrying the upsurge in violence fostered by colored immigration and lax refugee laws, while editorialists warn us against any perceived whitewash over today's events. Imagine what would happen if Vancouver were L.A."

  "It's not," said DeClercq.

  "We also have the Vancouver Police breathing down our necks. The shootings in their jurisdiction, so the finger's pointed."

  "They gave permission for the assault. Their team was tied up in a hostage standoff."

  "Well, now they're looking for damage control from us. Tarr's suspended. What sort of hothead blasts an unarmed kid?"

  "Desk job?"

  'Suspended. Out the door. The works. Let him watch cartoons instead."

  DeClercq shook his head. "Easy, Eric. Don't pander to the mob of political correctness. The room was dark. There were guns going off and bullets through the wall. The tape shows Tarr thought the pop-up had a gun. There was a hand piece in the boy's fist. A split-second call had to be made. I'm not saying it's the right one, just let Serious Crimes and the Public Complaints Commission handle it. Ground Tarr, but don't hang him out to dry. We all deserve a hearing before we're lynched."

  "Tell that to the black kid's mom."

  "Let me pose you a problem as a cop. Two black men rob a pizza parlor. Alerted by radio, you home in on a car nearby with a black driver and passenger. Does the fact this city has a small black population justify you taking them down?"

  Chan ignored the bait. "The reason you were called is Craven's suspended, too."

  "On what grounds?"

  "Coquitlam Detachment's pegged him as a suspect in his mother's death." Chan dropped a copy of the "Mother letter" on the coffee table. "He's the last person seen leaving her house. The house was locked and she didn't let strangers in. His overcoat is missing and

  blood was found on the cuff of his Red Serge. The cuff of the arm he'd use to wield a dub/'

  "Whose theory is that?"

  "Corporal Kidd's."

  "Black Corporal Kidd's?" emphasized DeClercq.

  "So what?"

  "So black, white, red, yellow, or polka dots, she stepped over the line with this. Did she ask Craven if he typed the letter? The unsigned letter? No, he tells me. Did she have a warrant or reasonable cause to toss his residence? Not that I can see. Before she took his tunic to the Lab, did she ask him about the blood? No, he tells me. He didn't type the letter and he left his mom alive. The blood got on his Red Serge when his hand caught on a nail while crossing a bridge on Colony Farm last night. The search was bad. The seizure's illegal. So Nick gets back his tunic."

  "You hate the Charter of Rights as much as I do."

  "Yes, but it's there, so I endure it. Maintiens le Droit. Isn't that our motto?"

  "You're protecting one of your men. Like you once did me. But now I have broader considerations. A white ERT cop shoots an innocent black boy. While blacks cry racist, the media scrutinize us for bias, searching for hints we're closing ranks around our own. The Member investigating Craven is black. She thinks the trail o
f blood leads to him. What would you have me do? Shut Kidd down? And give the media proof to say we whitewash our own?"

  "Eric, Nick's case is not about race."

  "It is when our only black corporal is involved."

  "That's bullshit. You see this morning's news? You want us to end up like that? White police beat a black man senseless on tape—the perfect smoking gun, every cop's dream case—and what does the jury see watching that film? A black youth hits a white man with a brick and does a victory dance on tape—the perfect smoking gun, every cop's dream case—and what does the jury see watching that film? Not what's happening, but which race is mine? And that determines the verdict in spite of the evidence. The California jury system is rotting. It doesn't weigh evidence, it touts race, when what's required is citizens pulling together out of a sense of duty

  and shared moral values for the best interests of society. How long till a trial comes along that exposes that racial maelstrom for the sinkhole it is? Nick's case has nothing to do with race, so don't feed it in. Stick to the facts."

  ''Don't lecture me."

  "Then don't be color-blind."

  "Craven had Macbeth do the autopsy. Why'd he feed his girlfriend into the murder?"

  "Because she's thorough, so he knew nothing would be missed."

  "We'll see. Craven is suspended till his Red Serge is tested. If the blood's his, he'll be cleared. In the meantime, Special X is suspended from that case. I want no interference with Kidd."

  "That's a lot of suspensions for one day, Eric."

  "You keep race at bay your way, I'll keep it back in mine."

  "Nick's case isn't about race," repeated DeClercq.

  "These days everything's about race," said Chan. "And when it comes to that issue, I think I'm much more sensitive than you."

  BLACK CAT

  New Westminster Tuesday, March 1, 1994

  The trial, three months later . . .