The reporters looked impatient as she read through the rest of the bland prepared statement.
She finished and looked up.
“Questions?” she asked them.
In unison they raised their hands like a pack of eager grade-one students asked, “Who wants a cookie?”
“Sam,” she said, pointing to the journalist from the Toronto Sun. Sadly, in the last few years a number of top court reporters in the city had passed away or retired, leaving Sam as the most experienced of the bunch. By picking him first, Bering was signalling to the press that she respected their work and their unspoken pecking order.
“Chief, do the police have a suspect at this time?” he asked.
Bering shook her head. “Not at this very moment. But I can assure the citizens of Toronto that the men and women on the force are working night and day on this investigation.”
“Do you have any leads?”
“Sam, I’ll let Homicide Detective Kennicott answer that question. He’s been on this case from the beginning.”
There was only one microphone. Bering passed it to him.
“We need to be frank and transparent with the public,” Kennicott said. “Our team is diligently following up every lead. The tip line is getting more than seventy-five calls a day. And we are appealing to the public for help.”
He was handling it perfectly, Greene thought. Being obtuse and not answering the question. This was going to provoke the reaction they wanted.
“But do the police have any solid leads?” the reporter asked again.
Before Kennicott could answer, Greene reached over and took the microphone, exactly the way they’d rehearsed it.
“We don’t want to mislead the public about this dangerous situation, so let me be clear,” Greene said. “The Metropolitan Toronto Police Service is suggesting in the strongest terms that anyone who is homeless seek a spot in one of the city’s shelters. Immediately.”
“Are you saying the streets are not safe?” another reporter asked.
“We are saying people must be alert and cautious. And if they see anything or anyone acting suspiciously, contact the police.”
“In other words,” the first reporter said, exasperated, “you have no leads.”
Bering took the microphone back. This was what Greene wanted. Make it seem as if the press was dragging it out of them. Never give an absolute denial because that might be too transparent a ruse. Let the press fill in the blanks.
“Do we have any leads?” She turned to Kennicott first, then Greene. They returned cold stares. “Unfortunately, we are not at liberty to discuss the specifics of this particular investigation at this time. That is why we are appealing to the public for help. But I want to personally assure the people of Toronto that we will leave no stone unturned to solve these terrible crimes.”
Bering picked up her paper and stood. Greene and Kennicott did the same. Even though reporters were still shouting out questions at them, they turned and left the stage.
“Quite a performance, gentlemen,” Bering said, when they were alone in the room behind the stage. Her shoulders sagged, and she wiped her brow. Greene could see the pressure weighing down on her.
“I don’t suppose now you’d let me know who the suspect is?” she asked Kennicott.
“You’ll have to ask Ari,” he said.
Greene’s phone buzzed. He read the text message from Alison and then looked up at them.
“The ‘pop-up’ demonstration just started on the Danforth Bridge. Let’s go.”
“Follow me,” Kennicott said. “I’ve got the best driver on the force on standby.” As he spoke, he punched in a speed-dial number on his phone.
“Officer Sheppard,” he said, “we’re heading out the door.”
61
“I am standing on an historic bridge here in Toronto, Canada,” Raymond Handbolt, the BBC Radio correspondent, was saying, speaking into his mic and broadcasting live. “Known locally as the Danforth Bridge, the true name is the Prince Edward Viaduct, and it was named after the former Prince of Wales, who arrived in 1919 to officially open the bridge. A tremendous demonstration has popped up, closing down one of the city’s main bridges at rush hour. It is a chaotic scene. With me now is Ms. Alison Greene, the crusading young reporter who first broke the story of the so-called Homeless Serial Killer, which has galvanized the issue of homelessness not only in Canada but across industrial nations around the globe.”
Alison stood beside Handbolt in the middle of the bridge, right across the street from the place where she’d first kissed Burns. They were crowded in amongst the growing mass of demonstrators, who had seized control of the bridge and created a major traffic jam in the afternoon rush hour. The protesters were holding banners and chanting slogans: “Homes Not Golf Courses,” and “Homes for Everyone, not Holes in One.”
Burns was leading the crowd. He’d sent Alison a tip with a coded text—“location of first kiss”—which had given her enough time to text the location to her dad, get to the bridge with Krevolin ahead of other reporters, and seize a prime spot for their coverage. She’d done a great live stand-up when the cop cars arrived just as Burns and his band of demonstrators took over the bridge and shut it down.
“Ms. Greene,” Handbolt said, “Three homeless people have been murdered in Toronto in less than a week. All in approximately the same location.”
He put the mic uncomfortably close to her mouth. She’d never done a radio interview before. “Yes,” she said, “in a valley in the city called the Humber, where there was a large homeless encampment.”
“There have been no arrests,” he said, pulling the mic back before shoving it back in her face.
“No, there have not been.”
“And the police, how have they responded? Do they have any leads?”
“No, at the moment they seem to have nothing.”
“Only adding to the anxiety and the protests,” he said.
As if on cue, a group of protesters, seeing Alison being interviewed, moved closer and started singing the John Lennon song “Give Peace a Chance,” with their own lyrics:
“All we are saying, is give us a home…”
Handbolt’s eyes lit up and he tilted his mic toward them.
Alison recognized their leader, Cassandra Amberlight, a veteran activist she had met the previous year while covering a protest by a local residents group against a large condominium project going up in their neighbourhood. Amberlight was a tall, gawky woman, famous for carrying an old brown leather megaphone and leading crowds with her booming voice.
“As you can hear,” Handbolt said, “the people are demanding action. Reporting live from Toronto, Canada, this is Raymond Handbolt for BBC Radio news.”
He clicked off his mic. “Thank you,” he said to Alison.
The singing stopped, and Amberlight stepped forward. “Hello, Ms. Greene, I told you I’d see you at the next demonstration.”
“You certainly did.” It was said of Amberlight that she never saw a microphone she didn’t want to speak into. Alison knew she’d seen the BBC label on Handbolt’s mic, and she was honing in on him like a hawk.
Alison introduced the two, and Amberlight began to chat him up.
Alison stepped away. She waved to Krevolin, who’d been taking cutaway shots of the protesters’ signs as the bridge was filling with people. She’d lost sight of Burns.
“Have you seen Dr. Burns?”
“He’s over there,” Krevolin said, pointing his camera at the spot where Alison and Burns had kissed. Burns was climbing up on the ledge, grasping the suicide barrier wires to hoist himself up above the crowd.
62
Parish was of two minds about having a TV in her bedroom. She’d once heard that the only thing former prime minister Pierre Trudeau had in his bedroom was a light and the book he was reading. Nothing else.
It would have been nice to be that aesthetically pure, but the reality was that some nights she wanted to crawl in under the cover
s and binge on Netflix or watch Colbert.
She was also a closet news junkie, and this afternoon all the news was about the massive demonstration that had popped up on the Danforth Bridge. She wasn’t usually in bed in the middle of the day, but she was sleeping with a community college student who, she’d just discovered, had no sympathy for the plight of the homeless. Chalk it up to his country-club upbringing.
She’d been watching the protest on TV while he slept, and snored, beside her. He was awoken by the sound of the protesters chanting, “The Homeless Need Homes,” “We Are Citizens Too,” “Homes Not Golf Courses.”
Jack groaned and groped over to the bedside table to find his glasses. “Do you really want to watch this stuff?” he asked her.
“I think it’s important.”
“Always the same old crap with these people. They don’t want to work. They just steal stuff, get high, and kill each other.”
Parish hadn’t told him that the third victim, Melissa, was her close friend. He was here for diversion, not sympathy.
“Not everyone has had your pampered upbringing,” she said, not really wanting to get into a political argument with him but not able to stop herself.
“Well, not everyone from my family turned out the same. Look, there’s my older brother, Arnie.”
He pointed to the screen at the man leading a group of protesters.
Parish looked closer at the TV. There was a close-up shot of Dr. Burns, the man Parish had met at the funeral. He had climbed up on the bridge railing and was leading a large crowd of protesters in their chants.
“He’s your brother?” she asked Jack. “His name is Burns, not Waterbridge.”
“My mother’s last name was Burnside. He shortened it to Burns.”
“Was?”
“She died when we were kids. Funny thing is Arnie was a better golfer than me. Dad named him for Arnold Palmer. I’m named after Jack Nicklaus.”
“Oh,” Parish said, half listening. Riveted to the TV.
“Now he wouldn’t set foot on the course if his life depended on it.”
“He wouldn’t?” she asked, distracted, not really paying attention to him.
“My therapist, she says Arnold’s homeless crusade is his way of acting out his anger at my dad.”
“Does she?” Now she was listening.
“That subconsciously he blames my dad for Mom’s death. I hardly recognized him. He’s not wearing his glasses. We all have crummy eyesight in our family. We all need bifocals.”
“And he’s not wearing his?”
“Dad calls Arnie a champagne socialist. Working for the poor but he rides a specially made bicycle, drinks the most expensive coffee you can buy, and wears custom-made, one-of-a-kind glasses.”
“One-of-a-kind, specially made?”
Her robe was on the floor. She slid out of bed, slipped it on, and reached for her phone.
“Hey, where you going?” Jack said, tugging at her robe.
“Give me a minute,” she said. “I have to make an important phone call.”
She rushed downstairs, sat at her kitchen table, and called Greene on the emergency number he’d given her.
63
Kennicott was right about Officer Sheppard, Greene thought as she flew through the city, siren blaring, horn honking.
He’d just gotten off the phone with Parish and briefed Kennicott. Alison had been texting and had warned him what to expect, but as their car approached the bridge, the scene was even more chaotic than he’d imagined. TV vans, police cars, demonstrators, and cars stranded in the middle of it all were packed on the bridge.
“Good work, Officer,” Greene said to Sheppard, as she threw the patrol car into park. “Stick with us.”
“Sure thing,” she said, hopping out of the car with them. They rushed up to the front of the bridge.
“You two get in position,” Greene said to Kennicott, “but wait for my call.”
“Where are you going?” Kennicott asked him.
Greene pointed to a path by the bridge. “I need to confirm something. It won’t take long. Grab some officers to help you and be ready.”
He headed down the path. Dent was sitting in his usual spot on the bench waiting for him.
“You forget the tent, Detective?” Dent said as his way of greeting.
“It’s been a little busy,” Greene said.
Above them they could hear the noise from the demonstration on the bridge.
Dent still had his club-like stick with him. He pointed it skyward. “Doc Photo Op has sure kicked up a shit storm, hasn’t he?”
“You mean Dr. Burns?”
“Doc Photo Op. That’s what everyone on the street calls him. The guy is everywhere. Shouldn’t you be up there? You’re missing the parade.”
“I’ve got people covering it.”
They shook hands. Greene had two fifty-dollar bills in his palm, and Dent pocketed them.
“Give one to Daphne,” he said.
“She’ll like that better than Tim Horton cards.”
“Did you know Melissa Copeland?”
“Law Lady? You see that headline in the Sun? ‘Hodgson’s Homeless Ex Murdered’?” Dent spit on the ground in disgust.
“I saw it.” Greene had seen all the tasteless headlines about Copeland. The press only cared about the politics and the money and ignored what had happened: someone had died a terrible death. To say nothing of the fact that she was leaving behind a young daughter.
“I hadn’t seen her for a while,” Dent said. “She helped everyone with their legal problems. I asked Daphne about her for you. She told me the word on the street was that Law Lady got crazier and crazier.”
“We heard that.”
Dent took his stick and pointed toward the office towers downtown. “Once upon a time she worked there. Big firm. Top biller.” His voice trailed off.
They sat silently for a while. Greene knew that Melissa’s story echoed Dent’s own.
“Daphne said she had a kid she never got to see,” Dent said.
“Daughter. Daphne tell you anything else?”
“She said no one really knew when Law Lady would appear, and no one knew where she stayed most nights. I wish I had more for you, Detective.”
“When was the last time Daphne saw her?”
“The day before she got herself killed. Everyone was leaving the valley after the second murder. Law Lady was telling people they didn’t have to go. She said she knew who the killer was, and that she knew a cop who was real high up. This cop was going to take care of things. Any idea who that might have been, Detective?”
Dent rarely made eye contact but he turned and looked straight at Greene.
Greene stared straight back at him.
Dent chuckled. He had a loud, hearty laugh.
“Detective,” he said, “you’re one of a kind.”
Greene laughed. He pointed back up the path. “Is this the only way down here from the bridge?”
“To this spot.” Dent swung his stick back behind him. “Get over this ridge and there’s a million ways to go.”
“Thanks,” Greene said, taking out his cell phone to call Kennicott. “Do me a favour, keep an eye out for the good doctor for me.”
“Will do,” Dent said. “And Detective, it’s getting cold. Don’t forget the tent next time.”
64
Alison had covered demonstrations before. They were tricky because you could get caught in the middle of things and not be able to tell what was really going on. Or find a quiet-enough place from which to report. As the bridge filled up with demonstrators, she’d found a spot near the west end of the bridge where Krevolin could film her with the colour and noise of the demonstrators in the background.
People were protesting everything under the sun: the homeless demanding more housing; a group of cyclists demanding better bike lanes; daycare workers demanding more daycare spots; university students demanding lower tuition. Burns was the ringleader, perched on the railin
g high above the crowd.
Amberlight had passed him her megaphone, and he was leading the protest sign–toting demonstrators in a new chant: “Stop pampering the rich. House the poor!” “Stop pampering the rich. House the poor!”
“We’re live in two minutes,” Krevolin told Alison.
She adjusted her hair and took one last look across the bridge. She spotted a group of police officers in a V-shape formation moving through the hordes of people. Usually Toronto cops stayed on the edge of demonstrations as long as they were peaceful, as this one was.
She scanned the crowd and noticed Burns. He saw them coming. Even from a distance Alison could see the surprised look on his face as they moved towards him. He threw the megaphone back to Amberlight, jumped down, and started pushing his way through the demonstrators, away from the police toward her side of the bridge.
What in the world was going on?
Her phone was on vibrate, buzzing in her pocket. She grabbed it. It was her dad.
“Ninety seconds,” Krevolin said.
The cops were chasing Burns through the crowd. He was well ahead of them and getting closer to her.
She grabbed her phone. “Dad?”
“Where are you?” he said.
“The west end of the bridge.”
“Turn around. I see you.”
She whirled around. Her dad was running toward her. Her father never ran. What was going on? He’d just come up from the path down into the valley. She looked back. Burns was pushing through the crowd. Her father’s partner, Detective Kennicott, was chasing after him.
“Allie,” her dad said, coming up to her, breathing hard.
“Dad?”
“I know it’s your personal life. But I have to know. Monday night, the night of the third murder, were you with Dr. Burns?”
Why was he asking her this?
“Thirty seconds,” Krevolin said in her ear.
“Yes,” she said to her father. “We worked at a church feeding the homeless and then walked across this bridge. Why?”
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