Downfall

by Robert Rotenberg

  He’d left a while ago. He said his dad would worry about him if he didn’t come home and that he had a math tutor coming to the house the next morning. She had a vague memory of him saying he was going to get her contact info from the guest list and would be in touch.

  Her phone rang a third time. She didn’t feel like answering it. Her head was pounding.

  It rang again. Okay, okay, she would answer the damn thing.

  “Nancy Parish,” she said, groping for the light switch on the bedside table lamp and not finding it.

  “Ms. Parish, it’s Detective Ari Greene.”

  Damn it, she was half drunk still.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said.

  She waved her hand around in the darkness until her fingers hit the base of her bedside lamp. Where was the damn light switch?

  “It’s okay,” she said. “What time is it?”

  “Three twenty-three a.m.”

  Three twenty-three a.m. Cop talk.

  Wait, a call from a homicide detective this hour of the night could only mean one thing: someone must have been charged with murder. Was it one of her old clients or a new one? She sat up. Focus, Parish told herself.

  “Give me a second,” she said.

  She found the switch, and it took her two tries to click it on. The light burst in her face. She squinted. She threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of her bed onto the bare hardwood floor. It was cool, and her feet tingled.

  “I’ve just got to find a pen and paper,” she said.

  For years she’d tried to discipline herself to keep a pad and pen by her bed. Every few weeks she’d set it up, but then she’d need the pen for something else, or she’d use the pad of paper and forget to put it back. Or not bother. Or not want to bother.

  “Take your time,” Greene said. Nothing more.

  Her partner, Ted DiPaulo, had defended Greene successfully when he was falsely accused of murdering his lover, so she’d seen the detective around the office many times. Greene was a quiet man, but something in the tone of his voice even with his few words gave her pause. To hell with the pen and paper.

  “Detective,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Melissa.”

  That was a relief. He was calling to tell her that Melissa had been found. Thank goodness she was safe. Parish didn’t need a pen and paper. She needed two aspirins and a glass of water.

  “Thanks for calling,” she said. “Kennicott told me that you’ve been secretly taking care of her for years. Where did they find her?”

  “Nancy,” Greene said, “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry? What was he sorry about?

  She felt a chill. Oh no. Greene had called her Nancy, not Ms. Parish. To soften the blow. He was a homicide detective. She could hear the horrible words in her head before he said them to her on the phone.

  “Melissa’s been killed.”

  “Melissa? Killed?”

  “Murdered.”

  “Murdered.” Parish gasped. “Murdered?”

  “At the Humber River Golf Club. Night watchman found her.”

  “I was there tonight. So was Kennicott. Britt, her daughter, and…”

  “I know.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “I can’t say right now.”

  “When was she…”

  “She was found a short while ago.”

  No. No. No. This couldn’t be. How? Why? Parish had too many questions. She tried to catch her breath. Her feet on the floor were growing cold. The alcohol zapped out of her system, and she was totally alert. Stone sober.

  “I mean do you know when she was…?” Parish didn’t want to say the word.

  “We’ll have to wait for the pathologist.”

  “Britt? Does she know?”

  “You’re my first call. Now we have to go see Britt’s father.”

  “Karl,” she said. “And Lydia.”

  Parish pulled her feet back off the floor and curled them under her thighs. They felt frigid against her skin. She squeezed the phone. Greene wasn’t saying anything more. She had this absurd thought that at least now she didn’t have to worry about Melissa getting arrested again and going back in front of Judge Tator. She let out a low sigh.

  “Thank you, Detective.” He’d called her Nancy, but she couldn’t call him by his first name.

  “I’ll be at Police Headquarters later in the day,” he said.

  The implication was clear. He had things to talk to her about, but not over the phone.

  “I can come to you,” she said.

  “Any information you have that can be of assistance would be most helpful. I can send a car to pick you up.”

  “No, thanks.” She wanted to be alone. The thought of having to talk to or deal with anyone else right now was too much.

  “Nancy,” he said. Using her name again.

  “Yes.”

  “You did everything you could for Melissa.”

  “But not enough.” Her feet were warming against her skin. She could tell Greene wanted to get off the phone. He must have a million things to do. But he was kind enough not to rush her.

  “I have to make some calls,” he said gently.

  “I know.”

  “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “How could you be?”

  “Thanks, Ari,” she said, his first name slipping out into the darkness like a wisp of smoke through a crack in a window. Searching for fresh air. And contact with the outside world.

  33

  Kennicott peered down the paved pathway. The moon had slipped behind the clouds and it was too dark to see very far. He took out his cell phone and clicked on its flashlight, and it cast a bright but narrow beam. He started to walk along the pathway, which took a sharp turn to the right, running parallel to the river below.

  He swept the light back and forth in front of him, making sure before every step that he was not disturbing any potential evidence. The pavement was clean and smooth. Thick grass on both edges of the path formed a low barrier. Had the golf ball built up enough momentum as it rolled down hill to slip over onto the lawn, or had it stayed on the path, like a hockey puck bouncing off the side boards? It was hard to tell.

  Even in the darkness, illuminated only by his thin cell-phone light, Kennicott could tell that the landscaping here was pristine. It was as if the wealthy golf-club members were determined to conquer every last bit of the natural setting, in stark contrast to what lay across the river, where the forest, and the homeless people, were overgrown, unkempt, and wild.

  It would be easier to wait and try to find the ball once the sun came up. That would be the prudent thing to do. But Kennicott didn’t want to wait. He continued down the path, careful mini-step by careful mini-step, counting them as he walked. On his tenth step, where the path turned, he spotted a subtle indent on the edge of the grass and the faint outline of the route the ball had taken across the manicured lawn. Bending down with his light, he plodded parallel to the line in the grass, like a tracker in the desert following the faint footsteps of his prey.

  The hill grew steeper as it descended toward the river. He imagined how the ball would have accelerated into a free fall. Another twenty steps and the grass gave way to a row of bushes. He scanned the edge of the foliage hoping that a low branch had stopped the ball. No such luck.

  What now? He could mark this spot and come back at first light. Instead he got on his hands and knees. He inched his way forward, the way he’d done as a kid at the family cottage, playing catch with his older brother, Michael, when he’d searched the thick bushes at the back of their property for a baseball that had flown over his outstretched mitt.

  He started to sweat. The branches were thick and scratched his hands. The earth was cold and wet. Muddy. He could hear the river close by.

  Holding the phone in one hand, he dragged himself forward with the other. He could hardly move. He put the phone in his mouth,
lifted his head and shone the light in front of him so he could use both hands.

  This must look ridiculous, he thought, laughing to himself. He’d give it another minute, then forget it. He shifted forward. His head hit a branch and the phone tumbled out of his mouth and landed face-down on the earth, obliterating the light and leaving him in total darkness.

  “Idiot,” he hissed. He padded his fingers around on the ground, getting them dirtier and dirtier until he found the phone. He flipped it over. A faint ray of light was visible through its now-muddy surface. He wiped it clean with his forefinger, and a strong beam of light hit him in the eyes, blinding him for a second.

  Damn. He pointed the phone toward the ground and waited for his eyes to readjust. Enough. It was time to cut his losses. He moved to get up, and flickered the light in front of him one last time.

  The golf ball.

  It was nestled in the crook of a branch. If it had gone two or three inches farther, it would have popped over the side and tumbled into the river below. Even now, a gust of wind could push it off into the water.

  He reached back into his pants pocket, pulled out a latex glove, and put it on. Propping himself up on his elbow, he tiptoed his fingers to the base of the branch.

  His elbow slipped, and his hand knocked into the bush. He saw the golf ball teeter on its precarious perch, like a basketball on the rim of the basket. There was only one thing to do. He lunged forward, the branches scraping at his face, and grabbed the ball. It was small and slippery, but he held on to it.

  He flopped on his back and exhaled. The air was still. He brought the golf ball into the light and turned it to read the label. It was the same as the others, with the club logo and the initials K.L.H.

  He clicked off the light, and was instantly enveloped in total darkness. He put his hands across his chest and felt his heartbeat begin to slow down. There was a faint smell of rotting leaves, and all he could hear was the sound of the rushing water in the unseen river tumbling over the rocks below.

  34

  “Alison,” Greene said in a loud voice as he rapped his knuckles hard on her bedroom door. He rarely came down the internal staircase in the house to her apartment, which had a bedroom, living room, and bathroom. And he’d never done this in the middle of the night as he was doing now.

  “Alison, I hate to wake you up, but I think you’ll want to hear this,” he said, knocking again.

  He stopped and listened. Maybe she wasn’t home. She often worked the night shift, and he made a point of not monitoring her movements. A few months ago, when she’d had a boyfriend, Greene never inquired if she was home at night or if he stayed over with her.

  Some nights when he came home late, Greene would see the boyfriend’s bicycle parked next to Alison’s in the bike rack beside the separate entrance to her place. But he never said a word.

  “Alison?” he tried one more time.

  “Dad,” he heard her say, her voice groggy. It had taken her months to start calling him Dad. When they’d first met in England, she’d avoided calling him by any name at all. Then, for a long time, once she came back with him to Canada, she called him Ari. He was happy with that. Being Dad was a bonus. A gift that secretly thrilled him, which he never took for granted.

  “Sorry to wake you,” he said. “There’s been another murder.”

  More shuffling before she spoke again. Then it hit him. Maybe she wasn’t alone. He felt foolish.

  “In the Humber Valley?” she asked through the door.

  “Yes. On the golf course this time. Another homeless woman. It came in a few minutes ago.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I’m going upstairs to make you some tea.”

  He stomped hard as he ascended the stairs and shut the door to the downstairs with force. Signalling to her that the coast was clear for whoever had spent the night with her, if someone had, and they could exit without being seen if they wanted to.

  In the kitchen he filled the stovetop kettle with cold water and put the kettle on the burner. From the cupboard he took down a teapot, two large mugs, and two tea bags. He knew exactly what the next hours of his life were going to be like, the way actors know before they go on stage how they will deliver their lines, and the reaction they’ll get from the audience. He wanted a few minutes of calm before the chaos.

  He heard a light tapping sound on the front window over the sink. It had begun to snow. He walked out onto the porch, put his hand on the cold railing, and looked downtown at the snowflakes falling on the forest of shimmering high-rise condos and office towers. It would be falling on the dead body of Melissa Copeland until the forensic officers could cover it with a tent. It would be falling on the makeshift houses of the homeless people living across the river. The wind came up, sending a chill down his spine, but he didn’t move. There was the faint smell of wood burning in a neighbour’s fireplace. Soon news of this third murder would explode across the city. He looked down at his bare hands and watched the snowflakes gently land and then slowly disappear into his skin.

  Back inside the kitchen, the water in the kettle had just started to churn. He waited until the whistle began to blow and pulled it from the flame, cutting the sound off mid-breath.

  He estimated it would take maybe fifteen minutes for the rest of the media world to discover what had happened. Fifteen minutes. That was the head start he’d just given Alison on the story. Was it a conflict of interest for him to pass a scoop to her? Or was he just being a good dad?

  He poured some hot water into the waiting pot, swirled it around to heat the pot, and then tossed the water into the sink. Then he gently placed the tea bags in one side of it and poured the hot water onto the other side, taking care not to crush the leaves by pouring the water directly on them.

  There were so many things out there he couldn’t control. But at least he could prepare a cup of tea for his daughter the way her mother used to make it for her.

  35

  Kennicott turned his light back on and walked carefully through the darkness, toward Ho’s lit-up tent, which stood out like a beacon up the hill.

  “Find anything?” Ho asked as he approached.

  Kennicott showed him the golf ball in his gloved hand.

  “Another hole in one,” Ho said.

  He pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Kennicott dropped the ball inside and watched Ho seal and label it.

  “Same initials on it too,” Kennicott said.

  “I’d heard that Hodgson was a scratch golfer, but three holes in one in a row. Now that’s quite something,” Ho said. He picked up his camera and started photographing the body from above, the sound of the shutter extra loud in the silence of the night.

  Kennicott stood back and watched. Ho stopped every few shots to check his camera to make sure his exposure was right.

  “Do you have any idea who she is?” Ho asked, clicking away like a tourist on vacation.

  Kennicott bent down by the body again. “Her name is Melissa Copeland. She’s Hodgson’s ex-wife. Used to be a top Bay Street lawyer, ended up on the street. Their daughter, Britt, is the girl Hodgson just had this big celebration for tonight.”

  Ho let out a low whistle. “Wow. Hodgson’s ex homeless? Murdered at his golf club where he killed another homeless person and was having a party? The press is going to go crazy when they hear about this.”

  Kennicott scanned Copeland’s body. She wore layers and layers of shirts and jackets, and her pants were baggy, tied together with a worn but beautiful leather belt. She had on a pair of old boots and multiple layers of socks. Her hair was long and pulled back.

  Ho changed lens on his camera and moved near her head for some close-up shots. “Presumably, she wasn’t on tonight’s invitation list.”

  “Good guess. She was on bail to stay away from the whole family.”

  “You think she tried to break into the party, and he stopped her?”

  Forensic officers were supposed to be objective. Gather evidence and do no m
ore. But that never stopped Ho from speculating.

  “That would give Hodgson motive,” Ho said. “He had opportunity.”

  Kennicott gave Ho a long look. They both knew that a few years earlier Kennicott had arrested Greene for murder. Greene had had opportunity and perhaps motive too. The only problem was that it turned out that Greene was innocent. Kennicott was determined to never make that mistake again. To never jump to conclusions.

  Ho wasn’t finished hypothesizing. “Hodgson’s beaten the rap once, but maybe this time…”

  Kennicott shook his head.

  Ho checked his camera again, then put it back in its case.

  “You got everything?” Kennicott asked.

  “Done. I videotaped the whole scene when you went golf-ball hunting.”

  That meant now Kennicott could touch the corpse. He put a glove on his other hand and moved a wisp of hair across Copeland’s forehead.

  “I want to check her pockets,” Kennicott said. He remembered how she’d secreted her business card with Greene’s number on the back deep in a hidden pocket of her Max Mara coat. Taking his time, he went through each pant pocket, then the pockets of the layers of shirts she was wearing. He unlaced her boots. They were Chanel and must have cost hundreds of dollars, but now the leather was fraying, the heels ground down.

  With effort he pulled them off. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. A foul smell erupted from her feet.

  “Agh,” Ho said.

  Kennicott ignored him. He put his hand in the boots and fished around. Nothing. Then he peeled off her socks. She had two layers on one foot, three on the other. Oddly, her toenails were perfectly manicured as well.

  “Very nice,” Ho said. “My wife would be impressed.”

  Kennicott turned every sock inside out. Still nothing. He heard footsteps approach, turned around, and saw Greene walking up.

  Without saying a word, Ho handed him a pair of latex gloves. Ho’s face was serious now, no hint of his usual sarcastic banter.

  Greene took his time looking over Copeland’s body. Kennicott showed him the evidence bag with the golf ball, and Ho showed him the material under her fingernails.