Downfall

by Robert Rotenberg

  As usual, it all seemed obvious, in hindsight.

  He’d gone back and talked to Marvin Lemon, the frustrated, grieving husband of Nurse Deb. Kennicott asked him about the fight he’d had with her on that horrible night he’d locked her out of the house.

  “She was ranting,” he said.

  “What was she saying?” Kennicott asked.

  “Nothing logical. She’d become totally paranoid. Screaming at me that the drug companies were after her, that people were out to kill her. Maybe she wasn’t so crazy after all.”

  “Did you know that she had cancer?” Kennicott asked.

  “I never knew how bad it was. She was totally emaciated. Her old friends at the hospital begged her to go for treatment. Good luck with that.”

  What could he do next? Work smarter, work harder. He’d tracked down the videographer and got copies of all his tape from the party, and this morning he’d spent hours in the video room at the homicide bureau going over it.

  He’d fast-forwarded past the guests arriving, the kids dancing, the food being served, and stopped at the point where Hodgson made his speech on the dance floor. Where had he gone, when Kennicott had been serving the tables and before Kennicott saw him come back inside? Was there any footage of that? No luck. The only thing that had been filmed was the kids getting back to dancing, and the guests playing the various golf games around the perimeter of the room.

  Kennicott skipped ahead to later in the party, after the dinner, when Britt was carried back inside on the golf-club chair like a champion. He wanted to see what happened when the confetti cannon went off, before the lights went out and the Move Over Tiger, Here Comes Britt tribute video was played.

  There was Hodgson, clear as day, right in the middle of things. Laughing along with others in the chaos as the confetti rained down on everyone. Then he was mugging for the camera, picking confetti out of his hair and from his jacket as he talked to the crowd.

  If Hodgson were ever put on trial for the murder of his ex-wife, this image of him smothered in the sticky confetti could be compelling circumstantial evidence against him. Kennicott could imagine the prosecutor telling the jury that this was proof that, while the video was playing, Hodgson had snuck outside to confront Melissa. And as one of her last acts, she had bravely hidden the piece of confetti in the folds of her pants as proof her ex-husband had confronted her. And killed her.

  Next the lights went dark when the tribute video to Britt started to play. Did Hodgson use the cover of darkness to go back outside? Unfortunately, it wasn’t clear. Kennicott was hoping that when the lights came back on in the room, the video might show he was no longer on the dance floor. Instead there he was in the crowd, making it seem as if he had never left. And perhaps he hadn’t.

  At a trial, as inculpatory as the piece of confetti might be, this evidence would have the exact opposite effect. A good defence lawyer would use it to show there was nothing to prove Hodgson left the hall after the confetti came down. So the piece on Melissa couldn’t be traced back to him.

  Kennicott patiently went through the rest of the tape and recorded each time Hodgson was on camera and when he wasn’t. It was a slow process, and when he was done he made a chart and tallied up seven gaps when Hodgson was off screen, the longest being eleven minutes and sixteen seconds.

  Was it enough time for him to encounter Melissa outside and kill her, while leaving a telltale piece of confetti on her body? And if Melissa was threatening to crash Hodgson’s special party for Britt, that would certainly give him motive. It was suspicious, but was it enough for them to arrest him?

  Kennicott turned off the video machine. Although Greene was just down the hall, he decided to write him a confidential email and include his time chart. Sometimes it was best to put your thoughts on paper first. It was the ex-lawyer in him.

  When he finished writing, he only felt more frustrated. The only thing he was certain of was that, despite his best efforts, he was still one step behind.

  42

  As she walked past the window of the Fahrenheit Café, Alison spotted Burns perched on a stool in the same corner where they’d met yesterday. He gave her a quick wave and headed toward the door.

  She waited for him to come outside. This was always awkward. The first meeting after the first kiss. How should they greet each other? Would they pretend their kiss had never happened? Would they give each other a quick, “just friends” peck on the cheek? On the lips? Or would it be a long, real kiss and tender embrace?

  And what did she want? A real kiss? A warm hug? Maybe nothing and forget all about it? Alison wasn’t sure.

  She watched him walk out and smile. What should she do? Before she had time to move, he came right up and reached out his arms. That made it easy. She reached out too, and they hugged. It felt good, the warmth of his body, the strength of his embrace.

  “Your report this morning was terrific,” he said.

  “You really think so?” she asked.

  They pulled away from each other at the same time, as if they had a silent agreement that their coupling would be longer than just a friendly hug, but not as long as a real lovers’ embrace.

  “Like I said in my text. It’s great you’re using the shocking statistics. Getting the message out. You seem to really care.”

  “Seem?”

  He laughed. “I can tell you care. It comes across. Coffee?” He pointed back through the window. There was a long line up at the counter.

  “No. Good news. My boss gave me the go-ahead to do this story if I can find a woman who will let me interview her on camera. I’m doing this on my own time. Where is the women’s drop-in place you told me about?”

  “It’s not far.” He unlocked his bike and walked with it on one side, while he put his other hand on her shoulder.

  Alison didn’t know this neighbourhood. The streets were filled with new condominiums, trendy-looking boutique shops, and high-end restaurants. They crossed over to Adelaide, a soulless one-way street heading downtown. It was backed up with expensive cars filled with well-dressed, impatient-looking drivers, most talking to someone on their headphones on their way to work, and hearty cyclists rolling by in the bike lane. Burns stopped in front of a nondescript brick building on the south side and locked his bike to a pole.

  A woman wearing a pair of pink plastic clogs and a thin green raincoat was walking back and forth in front of the door, bobbing her head up and down, talking to herself in a rapid, high-pitched voice.

  “Yes, yes, go in,” she said, and turned, “no, well, maybe,” turned again, “cold, it’s cold,” and turned yet again, “but, but, but.”

  “Good afternoon, Wendy,” Burns said, as casually as if he were greeting a colleague at work.

  “Doctor, doctor,” Wendy said, walking faster, turning in shorter and shorter circles.

  “You coming in today?” he asked. “A nice cup of tea, a bowl of soup to warm you up?”

  “Yes, no, maybe, no.”

  Saying that, she rushed down the street and turned down a corner.

  “When she’s on her meds, Wendy is one of the country’s top Scrabble players,” he said.

  They turned back to the building. A white sheet of paper was taped to the glass entrance door. The typewritten sign read

  Physical Violence of

  Any kind will result in a

  Service restriction from

  The Drop-in

  Alison peered inside. She could see groups of tired-looking women sitting on stackable chairs gathered around an eclectic collection of tables. Each woman had at least one, some had two, bulging plastic bags at their feet. A few of them wore white masks. One was in a wheelchair, another had a breathing tube in her nose. She could see from their caved-in cheeks that many had no teeth.

  “Welcome to Paradise, Part Two,” Burns said.

  Alison felt a lump deep in her throat. Despite herself she felt, what? Fear? Embarrassment? A hint of revulsion, which made her feel guilty? A part of her didn’t
want to go inside. And a part of her hated herself for feeling that way.

  “I should warn you,” he said. “I find that when their lives fall apart, women are more closed than men. I doubt any of these ladies will want to talk to you on camera.”

  “I’m pretty good at persuading people,” she said.

  He pulled open the heavy door. Some of the women looked up, and a few of them smiled at Burns. But most seemed preoccupied, in their own worlds, sipping cups of coffee from chipped mugs or eating sandwiches off white paper plates.

  The lighting was harsh. Something else was strange about the place. It took Alison a few seconds to realize what it was. The big room was quiet. All these women in one place, hardly anyone talking.

  Alison looked around, careful not to stare at anyone in particular. The only person who made momentary eye contact with her was a woman in the corner by the far wall. She caught Alison’s eye before she turned away and stared into space.

  Alison slowly made her way over to her. The woman sat alone at a small table with a slim Whole Foods bag by her side. There was a chair across from her.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” Alison asked.

  The woman peered up at her. She didn’t move, just stared right at Alison. Her eyes were a dark, almost-black brown, matching the colour of her straggly long hair. Both were in sharp contrast to her near-bleached-white skin. Her face was gaunt. She wore layers of loose-fitting clothes that Alison suspected hid an emaciated frame.

  She didn’t say a word.

  “I… I don’t want to bother you,” Alison said.

  Perhaps the woman didn’t understand English. Alison was about to walk away when the woman spoke.

  “Why?” she asked. Her voice was as thin as she was. Those dark eyes of hers didn’t leave Alison’s face.

  “Why what?” Alison asked, sitting across from her.

  “Why do you want to sit with me?”

  “Perhaps we can talk? I’m a journalist.”

  “I know,” the woman said, still staring. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  “I want to do a story. About a woman who lives…”

  The woman broke off eye contact.

  “I won’t use your name. I won’t show your face. I promise.”

  The woman swivelled in her chair, turning away. Alison was sure she had lost her. Any second now she expected her to get up and walk away.

  Instead the woman reached down into her bag and pulled out a small notebook with a pen clipped into the wire binding. She placed it with care on the table in front of her, and then, like a well-organized schoolteacher about to start a lesson with her class, opened it to a page marked by a ribbon. It was a diary, and Alison could see that the woman’s handwriting was tiny and precise.

  “What is your full name and date of birth?” she asked in an officious voice, as if she were a clerk at a government office. Once again she locked her eyes on Alison.

  Alison told her. Then her address, her cell phone number, her height and weight. When she’d finished taking her notes, the woman flipped to the back of her notebook and deftly tore out a blank page.

  She started to write as she spoke. “This is the contact information for my daughter, Gina. She just had a baby. And my husband, Marcel. This time I’ve been gone for one hundred twenty-four days. Tell them there’s no point in them trying to contact me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then come back and maybe we’ll talk. I’ll be here.”

  “I will.”

  The woman folded the paper exactly down the middle and passed it to Alison. Then she returned to staring into space.

  Alison got up and walked away quietly, clutching the piece of paper in her hand the way she used to hold a treasured seashell when her mother would take her to Brighton for afternoons by the sea.

  43

  “Mr. Hodgson, welcome back to the homicide department,” Greene said as he watched Hodgson walk into the reception area accompanied by his lawyer, Phil Cutter.

  Hodgson looked haggard. He wasn’t wearing his usual high-end golf sportswear but instead was dressed in old running shoes and the same baggy sweatpants, baseball cap, and hooded sweatshirt he’d been wearing when Kennicott and Greene had gone to talk to him earlier. He still had the hood up over his head, Greene assumed to hide his face in case some newspaper photographer saw him walking into Police Headquarters. Greene expected he would pull off the hood now that he was inside the building, but he didn’t.

  Greene turned to Cutter. He looked calm and collected, sharply dressed in a handmade Italian suit and hand-made leather shoes. His regular uniform.

  “Mr. Cutter, lovely to see you again as well,” Greene said.

  Greene referred to Cutter as “Mr. Cutter,” because he knew it annoyed him. In response, Cutter called him “Detective.” Cutter was always chummy with people and he called everyone by their first name, except Greene. Greene was sure Cutter would have loved to call him Ari, but he didn’t have the nerve to.

  “Trust me, Detective,” Cutter said, “there’s no place in the whole wide world that I’d rather be this morning than right here at the homicide bureau at Toronto Police Headquarters. I’ll be sure to write a review on Tripadvisor.”

  They both laughed.

  “It was your idea,” Greene said. “Not mine.”

  Half an hour earlier, Greene had finished reading Kennicott’s email about the videotape from the party when his cell phone rang. Greene wasn’t surprised to see the lawyer’s name pop up on his call display.

  “Mr. Cutter, what took you so long?” he said, opening his notebook as he spoke and recording the time. “It’s already ten thirty in the morning. I’ve been expecting your call for hours.”

  “Nice to talk to you too, Detective,” Cutter said.

  “I assume you’re calling to tell me Mr. Hodgson won’t speak to the police again, and that unless I intend to arrest him I should leave him alone, and you want any future communication to go through you.”

  Greene started writing in his notebook: Call from Hodgson’s lawyer Cutter: re: further contact with client.

  “You can assume that, Detective.”

  “Message received,” Greene said. He kept writing: Hodgson won’t make stmt. Then he said, “I’ll be in touch if we do decide to arrest—”

  “But your assumption would be wrong,” Cutter said, cutting in. “Mr. Hodgson has instructed me that he would like to come to Police Headquarters to give a full statement.”

  “I see,” Greene said, trying not to sound surprised. He never crossed anything out in his notebook. He wrote: Correction. Hodgson does wish to make stmt. “When would he like to do that?”

  “Right now. My client is here with me at the Starbucks down the street. We can be there in five minutes.”

  Greene looked at Kennicott’s email on his computer screen. It was a good thing he was in the building. They needed some time to prepare for this. In his notebook he added the words: this morning.

  “I have to set up an interview room,” Greene said. “Detective Kennicott will join us.”

  “I have one condition,” Cutter added. “And don’t write this down in your notes.”

  Greene lifted his pen. “Let’s hear it.”

  “You can tape this, but no video. Deal?”

  Greene was pretty sure he knew why Cutter was asking for this. “Deal,” he said. “Mr. Cutter, buy your client another latte and come over in half an hour.”

  Cutter chuckled and hung up.

  Greene walked over to the video room. Kennicott was slouched down in a deep chair staring at photographs from the party on a monitor. He looked exhausted.

  “Good work on your report,” Greene said.

  “I could have done better. I should never have lost sight of Hodgson.”

  “Only so much you can do when you’re at a big event like that where someone doesn’t want to be seen. I have news. Cutter just called. He wants to bring Hodgson in to make a statement.”

  Kennicott sat bo
lt upright in his chair. “You’re kidding.”

  Greene shook his head. “They’re going to be here in half an hour.”

  “You don’t think Hodgson’s coming here to confess, do you?”

  “You never know. Turn off the video, that’s part of the deal.”

  For the next twenty minutes they planned their strategy. How to arrange the seating in the interview room. Who would lead the questioning. What things to look for in Hodgson’s behaviour and reactions. How to respond to various scenarios Hodgson might present.

  “If Hodgson says the only time he went outside was the time when I saw him in the washroom, then he’s lying,” Kennicott said. “That was before the confetti shower.”

  Greene nodded. “Bring your time chart with you.”

  When Hodgson and Cutter arrived, the detectives were ready to go. On Greene’s instructions, Kennicott set up the interview room so Cutter and Hodgson sat on the side of the table farthest from the door. Even though Hodgson had come voluntarily and could terminate the interview at any time, Greene didn’t want to make it too easy for him to leave.

  Greene sat directly across from Hodgson, and Kennicott faced Cutter. Greene had put his briefcase on the end of the table. He opened it and pulled out his notebook and a pen. He clicked his pen. Kennicott took out his notebook too and then placed a handheld tape recorder in the centre of the table and turned it on.

  Kennicott stated the time and location and identified everyone in the room, clicked off the recorder, rewound it and played it back to make sure it was working, then turned the recorder back on.

  Greene kept his eyes on Hodgson, waiting to see if he would break out into a sweat. But he appeared to be uncharacteristically calm under his hood. And like a well-coached witness, he was staring with laser-like concentration at Greene.

  “Mr. Hodgson, your lawyer, Mr. Cutter, informs me that you wish to make a statement.”

  “I do.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I have come to confess,” Hodgson said, with no emotion in his voice.