by D. B. Carew
“How is your mother doing?” Chris asked.
“Good. She’s planning to visit me later this week. We’re wondering if I’ll be able to go out with her for a few hours when she’s here. She’s going to call you.”
“I’m really sorry, Paul. The hospital has just put a hold on passes in the community.”
Paul’s face fell. “Why?”
“Unfortunately, there was a situation where a patient was late returning to the hospital. An unauthorized absence was issued and —”
“Yeah, I knew about that. But how long before I can go?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. There’s going to be a review. Hopefully, it won’t take long. Whether it’ll done before your mother visits, though, is doubtful. I can talk with your mother and explain the situation. All your outings with staff have gone well, so going out with your mother should be fine once day-leave privileges are reinstated. Do you want me to call her?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Paul smiled feebly.
Chris felt immense guilt when it came to Paul. The young man had been seriously assaulted in the hospital three months earlier. It was widely suspected but never proven that Ray had executed the attack, and Chris was convinced Ray had targeted Paul simply because Paul was Chris’ patient. Chris felt personally responsible for the attack.
He noticed that Paul looked pensive. “Is there something on your mind?”
Paul paused for a moment. “Can I ask you a question about uh ... Ray Owens?”
“What about him?”
“I read that interview he did with the paper. Thinking about him made me nervous so I did what I learned from my course and did some breathing exercises. But I get this feeling sometimes, like he’s still going to come after me. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s how I feel.”
Chris felt his own anxiety rising. “I know what you’re saying. The important thing to remember is that he’s no longer here. He’s in custody and can’t do anything to you now.”
“What about you? Do you think he’ll come after you again?”
It was an innocent question, Chris knew, but it still caught him completely by surprise. “I ... I don’t think so.” Even to himself he sounded unconvincing.
“Is it true he’s your brother?”
“Half-brother,” Chris corrected. “It’s true.” He paused, searching for the right thing to say to reassure them both. “The thing is, we can’t live our lives in fear of people like Ray. That’s what he wants us to do. We have to do our best to forget about him and move on.”
“I try, but it’s hard. Does it get any easier?”
“It does.” Chris mentally winced at his lie. “It takes time, and some days are better than others, but it’ll get better.”
He told himself he had to believe this.
“Yeah, I guess so.” Paul’s face brightened. “Did you hear about the job I’ve got at the clubhouse?”
“I heard you were offered a few jobs. Tell me about it.” Chris had received positive reports about Paul’s involvement at the mental health clubhouse in New Westminster. Here participants were known as members as opposed to patients or clients, and activities focussed on strengths and abilities rather than illness. Paul had been going to the clubhouse with IFP staff for the past two months as part of a vocational services community outreach program.
“Well, I started in the maintenance unit, cleaning the floors, but then I tried the cooking unit, where I helped with lunches for the group, like in a restaurant. And now I’m in the communications unit, answering the phones.”
“That’s great. Which one do you like the most?”
“Well, I kinda like the communications unit because I’ve been getting some training on computers. But I’ve heard members have gone on to some pretty cool jobs at restaurants and hardware centres, so I’m thinking about that too.”
“Sounds like you’ve got some options. That’s really good to hear.”
“Yeah, I like it there. I’m going later this morning. They haven’t cancelled those outings, have they?” he asked in a panicked voice.
“No, that’ll be fine because you’re with staff,” Chris assured Paul. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your day. Talk soon.”
Chris left the unit.
ELEVEN
On his drive home from work that afternoon, something about his earlier meeting with Marvin kept gnawing at Chris. Why had Marvin reacted the way he had to questions about the second address?
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the paper with the addresses Marvin had written. Both were in Vancouver. Maybe one or both would lead him to Marvin’s brother or other family members.
He was aware that going to either of the addresses would be considered highly inappropriate. Standard practice for conducting home visits involved communicating first with colleagues and the IFP security department as a safety precaution, not to mention giving advance notice to the people he intended to visit. He thought of Florence’s earlier warning and figured she’d tear a strip off him if she knew what he was planning. He didn’t need the hassle.
Then he thought of Marvin, charged with murder, looking lost and scared in a place that was foreign to him. They had very little information about him, and Marvin didn’t appear able to communicate his thoughts and feelings about the incident and what was going on for him. Chris wanted to help Marvin.
He decided to go for it.
On his smartphone, he Googled directions to the first address, the one Marvin had called his home. Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the house on Vancouver’s east side. His knocks on the front door went unanswered, and he didn’t detect any movement inside the residence. A collection of newspaper flyers and mail reinforced his suspicion that the house was unoccupied. For how long, he didn’t know, but from the paint peeling from the siding and the tattered bed sheet pulled over the living room window, it was clear the house had seen better days.
Marvin had called this place home, which left Chris wondering who was living there now. Was Marvin’s mother still alive? Where was his brother? Using his phone, he searched Canada 411 and used the Reverse Address Lookup feature hoping to score a name associated with the home. No such luck. He strolled over to the house next door, figuring he could ask these questions of the neighbour, but no one answered that door either. He was considering going to another house—someone on the street had to be home—but then reminded himself that Marvin’s incident was garnering a lot of media attention. Maybe people were just reluctant to get involved, particularly when a stranger without a uniform was knocking at the door. He took one last look up and down the street before deciding to leave.
Striking out at the first house strengthened his resolve to check the second one. He Googled the address and reached it minutes later. He stepped out of his Ranger and rang the doorbell. No response. He rang again. He looked up and down this street, too, for signs of activity, but as with the first address, he found none. Chris’ Reverse Address Lookup revealed the house was registered to a Calvin Johnson. He Googled the name, but his search yielded no helpful results.
Perhaps people in this area were simply choosing to mind their own business. The thought nagged at him that this was advice he himself should probably consider following. He began to realize he’d embarked on a foolhardy venture without a plan, something he wouldn’t normally do. If something were to happen to him, no one would know where he was or what he was doing, not to mention the fact that he’d broken the hospital’s policy on conducting home visits. What did he expect to find anyway? He retreated to his truck and drove away.
He failed to notice the small surveillance camera mounted at the top right corner of the house
under the eavestrough that had captured his every move from the moment he’d pulled up in front of the building.
After leaving the homes in Vancouver, Chris reached Deanna’s house in New Westminster a few minutes past six.
Ann Marie excitedly opened the front door for him. “
Can I have popcorn tonight?” She gave him a serious look, as though eternal happiness depended on her popcorn consumption.
“I don’t know, Sweetie. Did you eat your supper?”
“She did,” Deanna said, joining them.
“Well, if Mommy says it’s okay with her, it’s okay with me.”
Ann Marie turned to her mother with a look of desperation on her face, forcing Deanna and Chris to laugh. “Okay.” Deanna grinned.
“And pop, too?”
“Oh my gosh! What are we going to do with that sweet tooth of yours?”
“Just a little? Please, Daddy!”
“Fine. Just a little, though.”
“She certainly has got you wrapped around her little finger.” Deanna smiled.
Chris smiled in return. “What time should we be back?”
Ann Marie had already raced ahead to Chris’ truck, holding a Princess Ariana DVD in one hand and a Princess Ariana doll in the other.
“Eight thirty would be good.” Deanna paused for a minute before adding, “You know, the next time, you could stay here to watch it.”
“I just may take you up on that. See you in a while.”
On the drive to Chris’ apartment, Ann Marie talked happily to her father about her favourite scenes in the movie they were about to watch. When they arrived, she wasted no time in asking her father to prepare the microwave popcorn and pour the root beer while she organized their special seating arrangements. They cuddled up against each other.
Chris had shared Ann Marie’s enthusiasm for the Princess Ariana movie the first three times he’d watched it with her. By now, he could recite key scenes almost as well as his daughter. His mind drifted off as he wondered what he would do if something happened to her. Not something. Someone. Ray Owens. He immediately tensed up and felt his grip on Ann Marie tighten.
“Are you okay, Daddy?”
“What? Oh, yes, Sweetie,” he said, jolted back to reality. He exhaled deeply. “I love you so much, Ann. You know that, right?”
“I do. And I love you, too.” She turned her attention back to her movie, joyfully oblivious to what her father had just gone through.
The evening came to an end too soon for Chris’ liking, and judging from the frown on Ann Marie’s face, she felt the same way. But he lifted her spirits, as well as his own, with talk about their weekend visit to the aquarium.
Ann Marie was sleeping by the time Chris pulled up in front of her home. He gently lifted her out of her seat and carried her toward the house. Deanna, wearing a burgundy silk dressing gown, met him at the front door. Together, they tucked Ann Marie into her bed and talked casually for a few minutes before Chris prepared to leave. To his mild surprise, Deanna hugged him, and he hugged her in return. It was a simple gesture, nothing more than a quick embrace. Still, since their separation, Deanna had limited her physical contact with Chris, so tonight’s affection didn’t go unnoticed.
As he drove to his empty apartment, he found himself thinking back on his marriage and his time in their once-happy home. He couldn’t resist the what-if question that followed. What if he’d done a better job of listening to Deanna when she’d raised concerns about the impact of his work on their marriage? Staying late at work had become a habit for Chris, and when he’d finally get home, he’d be too physically and mentally exhausted to spend quality time with Deanna and Ann Marie.
He didn’t want to repeat the mistake with Stephanie. Upon arriving home, he called her to say good night and to tell her he loved her.
Calvin Johnson punched in the number on his cellphone. He lit a cigarette while waiting for a reply. “Some asshole’s been snooping around my place.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and slowly exhaled.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know, but I’m sure as hell gonna find out.”
“What do you think he was doing there?”
“No clue. But if it’s related to that Marvin kid, it’s trouble.”
“What if it is?”
“Then I’ll take care of it.”
TWELVE
The next day, Chris was no further ahead in solving the mystery surrounding Marvin. Who was he and how did he end up at a murder scene? Surfing the Tribune’s website from his office, Chris quickly realized he wasn’t the only one searching for answers about Marvin.
He read the piece Lucy Chen had written that morning.
The case, which has been dubbed “the Ice Cream Killer,” has gripped the Lower Mainland, as the story of Alberto Bianchi’s death appears to resonate with people for different reasons. Many have railed against what they see as another example of the city losing its war against rampant crime. The Letters to the Editor page of this newspaper has been flooded by comments that boil down to one thing: what are people like Marvin Goodwin doing out on the street?
Opinions appear to be split as to whether Goodwin is a violent offender who deserves a stiff jail sentence or a vulnerable adult who requires specialized rehabilitation in a care facility.
There has also been no shortage of assigned blame, ranging from personal attacks against the Goodwin family for failing to provide Marvin with a proper upbringing, to criticism of the provincial government’s controversial decision to close a tertiary psychiatric hospital without providing adequate community-support services for the mentally ill.
Chris had read enough; he closed the site. He needed to speak with Brandon about the case. He valued Brandon’s opinion, not just as a police officer but as a trusted friend.
When he reached the sergeant, he outlined his concern. “Marvin’s so anxious and timid, I can hardly get him to look at me. I’m finding it hard to see how he could kill someone. It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that over the years, Chris? The cold hard truth is all kinds of people do all kinds of crazy things for all kinds of reasons. And their reasons don’t have to make sense. You of all people should know that, considering where you work. I don’t think this one’s too hard to understand. The guy has obvious mental problems, right? Something snapped and we all know the result.”
“You’re right, I’ve seen people do horrible things when they were influenced by voices in their head, acting in impulsive and irrational ways. But I don’t see that with Marvin. He’s done nothing to suggest that he acts impulsively. He’s cognitively slow, sure, but he hasn’t shown any evidence of responding to voices or acting on delusions. And he hasn’t been violent while he’s been with us. Besides, how the hell did he get himself out in the middle of nowhere in the first place? That road in Hope is a hundred and fifty kilometres away from his house in Vancouver.”
“All right, Chris, I can see where you’re going with this. If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll ask around to see what’s happening with the case. But I think you’re going to be disappointed with what we find.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think you’re a bit too close to this one. I know how hard you work with your patients and I understand why you want this kid to come out innocent, but from where I stand, the facts don’t support it.”
“Well, thanks for looking into it. I appreciate it, Brandon.” He paused for a moment. “I also wanted to let you know Stephanie and I are going to Elizabeth’s ceremony.”
“That’s great. I’ll see you there.”
After he hung up, Chris’ thoughts remained on Marvin. Was Brandon right? Was he too close to the case?
Chris couldn’t dwell on Marvin’s case. He had other things to worry about, including making awkward phone calls to patients’ families, explaining why patients’ day leaves were on hold.
Chris wasn’t looking forward to the call to Paul Butler’s mother in particular. Susan Butler had put a lot of effort into planning her visit to IFP from her home in Courtenay, on the east coast of Vancouver Island. She’d made a reservation with BC Ferries to take her from Nanaimo to West Vancouver and then found a hotel for her nights in the Lower Mainland
, and now Chris had to explain that the outing wasn’t going to happen after all.
As he’d expected, she was disheartened. “Did Paul do something wrong?” she worried.
“No. He didn’t do anything at all.” Chris paused. What he wanted to say was that Paul was paying the price for a hypersensitive hospital administration concerned about public perception. “The hospital is undergoing a review to ensure sufficient safeguards are in place to maximize the success of all patient access to the community.”
Chris made no attempt to hide the fact that he was reading, word for word, a scripted message from the IFP communications department. The fact that skilled mental health professionals were issued specific guidelines on communicating the cancellation of day leaves further added to his frustration of having to deliver this news.
Paul’s mother took the news in stride and chose to continue with her planned visit, accepting that she would be limited to seeing her son in the hospital unit. Chris assured her that he’d seek permission for her to have flexible visiting times given that she was travelling from outside the Lower Mainland.
After making the arrangements with the unit for the visit, he glanced at his watch and realized that he would have to leave immediately if he intended to make it to Woodland Park in time.
As he drove to Woodland Park, Chris debated whether he was doing the right thing. The very idea of attending the park was triggering his PTSD symptoms. But he also appreciated the significance the park held for Elizabeth, so out of respect for her, he was forcing himself to attend the ceremony.
He was grateful that Stephanie was joining him for support. They met at the park entrance. As they started their hike into the interior of the park, painful memories flooded his mind: the gruesome sight of James Carrier’s body, the torso blown apart; the jarring sensation of being shot in the shoulder; being forced by Ray to look down the barrel of his rifle, not knowing whether Ray was going to pull the trigger. Chris’ heart started pounding so fast he thought he was going to pass out.