by D. B. Carew
He had so many questions that it was hard to decide where to start. “What can you tell me about Ray’s biological mother?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I wasn’t given any information about her at all.”
Chris had hoped to learn some, any information about Ray’s mother. “I read that he came to live with you when he was around ten. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Wanda said flatly.
“Can you tell me what led to the decision for him to live with you?”
“Back then, I’d developed a bit of a reputation for working well with the more challenging children that came through my door. The Ministry came to me after Raymond had burned through his other placements. I don’t doubt that some of them had been bad. I heard about the abuse he endured. I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a fresh start and I did my best to give Raymond a good home.”
“You mentioned abuse. What do you know about that?”
No response.
“Ms. Hill, I promise I won’t tell Ray that we talked. But your information would be very helpful to me.”
“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “Raymond had a problem with bedwetting. The foster family he was staying with at the time had two children of their own, neither of which, I guess, wet the bed. The parents thought this was acting-out behaviour from Raymond. I was told the father disciplined him using a belt to strap his bottom. The other children were a few years older than Raymond, and they teased him about his bedwetting and told his classmates at school. You can imagine the kind of reaction that led to.”
She paused as though she was recalling the unpleasant details. “I heard stories, after the fact, that the parents gave their own children preferential treatment and ignored Raymond, to the point that I guess he learned that the most effective way for him to get attention was by acting out. I suppose you would call that attention-seeking behaviour.”
“Do you know what led to his removal from that home?”
“The story, as it was told to me, is that one morning he showed up at school with a bottom so sore he couldn’t sit properly in his seat. The teacher brought him to the guidance counsellor, and eventually they pieced together a picture of what was going on at home. I think that placement scarred Raymond for life, psychologically if not physically.”
“What happened when he came to you?”
“Jealousy. His behaviour was marginally appropriate as long as all the attention was on him. But the minute he thought he was competing for it, it was over. I took him to counsellor after counsellor, but it made no difference. I lost so much because of him: my pets, my marriage.”
“Is it true he killed your bird?”
“Yes.”
“And he shot his foster sister in the eye with a pellet gun?”
“Yes.” Wanda started to sob. “He hated Teresa with a passion. He was twelve when he shot her. My husband had already left me by then. He was afraid of Raymond. Teresa lost sight in her left eye. That was the final straw. The Ministry removed Raymond from my care.”
“What about Teresa? Where is she now?”
Silence. “She was a good girl, but she had her own problems. She would cut herself when she was overwhelmed. And when she was older, she got caught up with drugs. She kept in touch with me over the years through letters. From the last one I received, it sounded like she was turning her life around.”
Silence again, followed by heavier sobbing. “I was shocked to hear that she’d overdosed on heroin.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that, Ms. Hill. Do you remember when that was?”
“Getting close to five years now. They found her in a hotel room on the Downtown Eastside. She had bruising on her wrists, and they thought there was evidence of a struggle. They didn’t think she was alone. That’s why I’ve never believed it was suicide. I’ve spent so many sleepless nights wondering who was in that room with her. Wondering who would let her die like that.”
Chris’ chest tightened as he thought of Ray. “Were there any suspects?”
“Not enough evidence. It was passed off as a junkie’s overdose.”
Chris felt terrible about forcing Wanda to relive these obviously painful memories, but he needed the answers to his questions. “Are you up to answering a few more questions, Ms. Hill? I’m almost finished.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Ryder.” Her voice was toneless now.
“When was your last contact with Ray?”
She laughed nervously. “The last time I saw him? Or the last time I received a threatening phone call?” She answered before Chris could elaborate. “The last time I saw him was the day the Ministry took him from my house, ages ago. He looked back at me with a big smirk on his face and told me he wouldn’t forget me, or Teresa.”
“And he called you after that?”
“He called a lot the first several months after he left. That’s why I moved and changed my phone number. Months would go by, but he’d always manage to find out my new number and I’d be woken up in the middle of the night by a call from him. Sometimes he’d shout profanities and threats at me, and other times he wouldn’t say anything at all although I knew it was him on the line. I gave up changing my phone number after a while. I think he enjoyed the challenge of tracking me down.”
“Do you know where he went after you?”
“No. I was too afraid to know. I hoped I’d never hear from him again. And I hadn’t for years. But then there was that killing at Woodland Park, and it brought back all those memories for me. Then a social worker called me a few weeks ago, looking for information on Raymond. From what I understand, he has a son.”
“He what?” Chris hoped he’d misheard her.
“Sad, isn’t it? The social worker said she couldn’t disclose much to me because of privacy issues, but she implied that the child’s mother wasn’t in the picture and she wanted information on Raymond from his time with me. I told her pretty much what I’ve told you and that was the end of it.”
Chris didn’t know how to respond to the revelation that Ray had a son. Did Ray even know? He thanked Wanda and apologized again for disturbing her afternoon.
“Just one more thing,” she said before they ended the call. “I tried my best to help him. For years, I blamed myself. I constantly wondered if I could have done more. I even got counselling for myself. The therapist told me she suspected Raymond had narcissistic personality disorder. She said Raymond was extremely sensitive about rejection. All I know now is, some people can’t be helped, and sadly, he’s one of them. But I suspect you know that already, Mr. Ryder. I hope you also know to be careful around him.”
THIRTY-TWO
Chris reflected on the information he’d gathered from Wanda Hill. Did Ray kill his foster sister? Chris knew only too well that the man was capable of murder, but the possibility that he’d killed Teresa was chilling. He considered what Wanda had said about Ray’s jealousy toward Teresa and recalled Ray’s jealous rage at Chris’ being raised by his biological family while Ray had been placed in foster care.
But what had happened to Ray’s mother? How did she meet Maurice, and where was she now? He desperately wanted the answers to these questions, too.
But the biggest surprise of the afternoon was learning that Ray had a son. Who was the mother, and where was she now? Chris started thinking about the son. He wondered how old he was and where he was now.
His thoughts were interrupted by a call from Brandon. “Hey, are you gonna be around for a while? Thought I’d check in on how you’re doing.”
Chris was looking forward to seeing Stephanie but would always make time for his friend. “I can be. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there. Should be maybe thirty minutes.”
It was closer to forty-five minutes before Brandon knocked at the door. “Wow, I love what you haven’t done with the place,” he joked as he scanned the bare apartment. “You have any beer?”
“Good question. Don’t know.” Chris walked over to the f
ridge, opened it and saw that he had two Granville Island Pilsners left. He handed one to Brandon and opened the other for himself. “Cheers.”
Brandon laughed. “I’m guessing Stephanie doesn’t spend much time here.”
“Did you come all the way over here to offer interior decorating advice?”
“Nah. I got an update on the Goodwin case, though. Interested?”
“Damn right. What is it?”
Brandon took a gulp of his beer before continuing. “Samples of the blood found at the crime scene were sent to the lab. The results came back today, and I talked to the officer in charge of the file. Two different blood types, but Goodwin’s isn’t one of them.”
Chris gave him a confused look. “But Marvin was found at the scene covered in blood.”
“He had blood on his clothes, but it wasn’t his, and his blood wasn’t found on the victim or the weapon, the tire iron. In fact, there’s no trace of his blood anywhere at the scene. Just the victim’s and a third person’s, and this person has no record in our system.”
“So Marvin wasn’t there alone?”
“Sure looks that way.”
Chris ran the possibilities through his head. “That would explain how he ended up in the middle of nowhere.” An idea popped in his head. “Do you think it could be his brother’s? Maybe that’s why no one can find the brother now. He’s hiding.”
“Don’t know at this point.”
“What does this mean for the charge against Marvin?”
“For starters, his lawyer has a strong argument to have the murder charge dropped. We still don’t know the role he played in the offence, but now the focus shifts to finding the person matching the blood type.”
Chris had his own news and told Brandon about the two addresses he’d received from Marvin. “I think the first one is the house where he lived with his brother. I drove by, and it looks abandoned. I don’t know about the second one, though. Do you want them?”
“Sure,” Brandon said, seeming to be taken aback. “I’ll pass it along to the officer in charge of Goodwin’s file.”
Chris rifled through his messenger bag until he found the paper with the two addresses. “I know I should have given this to you earlier. To be honest, I was embarrassed.” He told Brandon about his trips to the houses.
“So you’re a cop, now?” Brandon laughed. “But seriously, you could’ve gotten yourself in a world of trouble.”
“I know,” Chris said sheepishly. “Marvin’s brother’s name is Michael. I Googled him but nothing came up. And when I plugged in the address for the second house, the name Calvin Johnson came up. I Googled that name and a bunch of different Calvins came up, but nothing else stood out.”
“Quite the detective work. Thanks.” Brandon put the paper in his pocket. “By the way, I see your place has been in the news again. What’s the deal with your guys out on day passes, anyway? Aren’t you afraid they’re gonna take off and land themselves in more trouble?”
Chris felt his blood pressure starting to rise. He wasn’t much in the mood for debating the day-leave moratorium with Brandon. He’d learned this was one area where they held opposing views.
“It’s complicated.”
But Brandon wasn’t about to let it go. “What’s so complicated about locking the doors to your hospital? The last thing we need is a bunch of Ray Owenses running loose!”
“Come on, Brandon. First of all, if you remember, Ray isn’t at IFP.”
“But he tried, didn’t he? A lot of them do, trying to fake mental illness, trying to be found not criminally responsible to avoid jail, so they can go to your cushy little hospital and get out on passes. Isn’t this what the whole issue is about?”
“No, it’s not. The reality is the NCR finding makes up a small fraction of criminal cases. You know why? Because the psychiatric assessment and court processes weed out fakers like Ray. And if you looked at the research, you’d know that many people found NCR actually end up being detained longer in hospital for treatment than if they’d gone to jail. But no one ever talks about that. Or the fact that the re-offending rate for people found NCR is much, much lower than for the general prison population. That’s because the forensic psychiatric system works!”
“You don’t need to get defensive with me, Chris. I’m just trying to understand the logic behind letting someone go out on his own after you yourself have said he’s mentally ill, hearing voices and the like.”
“We don’t just open the door and cross our fingers hoping that nothing bad happens, Brandon. Patients go through many steps, starting with assessment outings with staff to make sure they’re ready. Then they have several staff-supervised outings, before gradually getting unsupervised access to the community. And there are safeguards and contingency plans in place at every step of the way. And if it’s felt that the risk from a patient can’t be managed, he doesn’t go out in the first place.”
“But you wouldn’t have any risk if you didn’t let him out at all, is all I’m saying. I end up having to deal with them on the street.”
“Yeah, I know how that ends. The Tanner case.”
Neil Tanner, a distraught young man with a history of mental illness, had been shot to death by two police officers a year earlier after he’d lunged at them with a baseball bat. The incident had been captured on a smartphone and posted to YouTube, where it went viral and created an uproar in Vancouver and beyond, with accusations of excessive force and police brutality. An inquiry into the incident reinforced the need for mandatory training for all police officers in crisis intervention and de-escalation when interacting with people in mental health distress.
“Hey, that’s bullshit, Chris. I’ve had the training. But there’s a world of difference between a classroom and the street when you’re in a life-and-death situation without proper backup and without options like tasers at hand.”
“You’re right. I was out of line.” Chris took a deep breath. As frustrated as he was, he knew a lot of people were asking the same questions as Brandon. He also knew Brandon was a good cop—and his friend. “I guess it all comes down to whether we’re about incarceration or rehabilitation. Do we lock people up because they have a mental illness, or do we help them recover and return successfully to their communities? The reality is that high-risk offenders don’t account for the majority of the patients I work with, and besides, they’re not the ones getting day leaves. Unfortunately, though, it’s these extreme few who’ve gotten all the attention. Like you said, it’s the Rays of the world that people are thinking about, but every patient ends up getting tarred with the same brush. The result breeds fear about anyone with a mental illness.”
“Yeah, well, good luck with changing people’s attitudes.”
Chris sensed Brandon was still bristling from his earlier remark about the Tanner case. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
Brandon’s nod suggested all was forgiven, and they finished their beer in companionable silence as Chris reflected on Marvin’s case. “Do you ever think about the randomness of life?” he asked suddenly.
Brandon gave him a puzzled look. “In what way?” “I mean, take Mr. Bianchi. He loses his life and Marvin ends up at IFP charged with his murder, all because of the breakdown of an ice cream truck. Can you believe that? If the truck hadn’t broken down, Mr. Bianchi wouldn’t have been stuck on the side of the road and maybe none of this would have happened.” Chris shook his head. “And Ray’s cellphone. If I hadn’t found it in that park, I would never have run into him and I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in today.”
“And we wouldn’t have met,” Brandon pointed out, continuing the line of reasoning. He sighed deeply. “Yeah, I’ve thought a lot about fate, too. You can drive yourself crazy thinking about the what-ifs in life.”
Unable to shake Ray from his thoughts, Chris found himself wishing he could what-if his nemesis out of existence, but he settled for telling Brandon about his call to Ray’s former foster mother, shari
ng the news about Ray’s foster sister’s death and the fact that Ray had a son. “He leaves a path of destruction wherever he goes,” Chris said in disgust. “It makes me wonder what life would be like if I’d killed him when I had the chance. It would have been self-defence and he’d be nobody’s problem anymore.”
“You want to know how I got this?” Brandon pointed to a faint scar that started above his eye and continued down toward his cheekbone.
Chris nodded. He’d wondered before about the scar but hadn’t wanted to pry.
“One night, my partner and I got a call about an armed robbery. When we arrived, one of the perps came at me with a seven-inch knife. He took a pretty decent swing at me, connected above my eye right here.” Brandon pointed to the faded scar. “I kicked him on his ass and drew my revolver, told him to stay put. But he got up, looked like he was high on something, started to charge me. I shot him ... dead.” He stopped, took a slow breath before continuing. “So, what you said earlier about the Neil Tanner case kinda hit me hard.”
“I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Brandon responded soberly. “There was an investigation, and I was cleared. Self-defence. If I hadn’t shot him, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t be here today. I was trained to shoot to kill in situations like that.” A look of pain crossed his face. “But I’ve lost track of how many nights I’ve spent wondering whether I could have handled things differently, whether I could have fired a less lethal shot at him. Truth is, I’ll never know. I was pissed at him, and well, I was scared that he was going kill me.” He sighed. “All I know is that I’m reminded every time I look in the mirror. Believe me, you don’t want that kind of thing on your conscience. It eats away at you.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but there are also times when I’m terrified that Ray will find a way around the legal system somehow, especially with Bernum taking his case. Would you have confidence that the legal system would deal with someone like him? Or would you take care of it yourself?”