by R. D. Cain
“Nothing for Mazitoze, are you sure —”
Nastos pointed to the scheduling book on the desk. “No, it’s Nastos, it’s written right there in front of you, for nine o’clock.”
The receptionist didn’t sound much happier when she replied, “Well, you can have a seat, it won’t be long.”
“Thank you.” Some people were just always pissed about something. This was the first time Nastos had brought Josie here, though she had been seeing Dr. Irons for three years. He hoped to make it his last and let Madeleine deal with this bridge troll from now on; she was in sales and had a knack for it. He turned and walked into the waiting room, took a seat and went through a Reader’s Digest magazine. He found one with a cover story about a trekker lost in the winter woods for a few days. It was sure to be a real page-turner. Josie was totally engrossed in her boxing match. She had the footwork going and her arms swinging. Somewhere, Oscar De La Hoya had the cold sweats.
Soon enough, Dr. Irons came out from the hallway. He was tall and lean, with short, greying hair. He had a slightly reddened tan, likely from the business next door. Irons was wearing a t-shirt–style scrub shirt, like the kind seen on every medical show. Nastos noticed Irons’ veins and muscle tone; he was clearly a fit guy.
As Irons came into reception, a smile broke over his face. He stepped past Nastos, glancing from him to Josie on his way by, and it was the strangest thing for Nastos. Something struck the detective right away as being out of place, but he couldn’t think of what it was at the time.
We may not always remember what people say, but no matter how much time passes, we always remember how people make us feel. Despite Irons’ pleasant mannerisms, smile and polite request for Josie to accompany him — despite these things, Nastos felt uneasy. A feeling he later wished he had listened to.
“Josie Nastos?” Irons asked.
The future lightweight champion turned around, smiling and ready to go. “Hi,” she said.
Irons reached out his hand and Josie took it. He smiled again to Nastos. “I can’t imagine I’ll take over half an hour, but sometimes it takes a while to get all the edges of those tiny little teeth during the cleaning.”
“Great, thanks,” Nastos said. He glanced at the moms in the room. They were appraising Irons. Nastos could see why they liked him: good looks, fitness, money.
AS HE REMEMBERED WATCHING HIS little girl skipping behind Dr. Irons, hopping from place to place in an imaginary hopscotch game, he felt that nagging feeling that he had left the house and had forgotten something, or like there was a merry-go-round in his stomach that he just noticed had begun to go too fast. He should’ve stood up and shouted Stop or taken his daughter out of the spinning room. But he did nothing. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about, that little Josie was as safe as she could be. And by doing so he made the biggest mistake of his life.
Nastos returned to the reality of the courtroom. He was discreet when he wiped his eyes dry. He was aware that his shoulders and wrists felt raw, then noticed that everyone else in the room was standing.
Nastos stood up next to Carscadden who eyed him as if to say, It’s about time. The judge was just taking his seat with a sucked-in lower lip, a little put off that Nastos was slow to stand. The judge shook his head and for just a second glared at both Nastos and Carscadden. His Honour slid forward in his chair, smiling broadly for the court and gallery to see. He was an older man in his sixties with grey hair. His smile was practised, insincere and not particularly comforting.
“Good morning, everyone. Madam Prosecutor, are you ready to proceed?”
Nastos didn’t hear the court officer ask everyone to rise or say the judge’s name. He glanced to his left and saw the prosecutor standing to address the court. Seeing that it was Angela Dewar almost made Nastos smile, in spite of everything. No matter how overworked and frazzled she was, her effortless rigid posture and sharp facial features made looking elegant come natural to her. She was dark-skinned and spoke with a refined Indian accent.
“Your Honour, the accused before the court is here for his bail hearing. Mr. Nastos, a detective for the Toronto Police Service, is charged with murder.”
2
Six Months Earlier
February 21, 2011
DETECTIVE NASTOS OPENED THE DOOR and walked into the central office of the Sexual Assault Unit. A dozen cops sat at cubicles, ignoring ringing phones on their desks in favour of the tv screen, shouting at the Maple Leafs for losing another hockey game while they sipped their Tim Hortons coffees. Play-by-play commentary was accented by shouts from the detectives filling the room. It’s not a crime until it’s overtime, Nastos said the common police motto to himself. All day you do your important personal stuff, catch the hockey game, visit a girlfriend, avoid your boss, then just before you’re supposed to go home, you find something plausibly urgent — get a witness to come in for a scheduled interview or follow up on a tip you got hours or days ago. By the end of the year, it was an easy way to make a few thousand in overtime. A hockey game was as good an excuse as any because, for full enjoyment, it required assistance from other detectives.
Nastos went to the cubicle farthest from the door in a back corner. He sat at his desk, turned on the table light and flicked the mouse to bring the computer screen to life. It was five in the afternoon and he was beginning his night shift. The phone rang and he picked it up.
“Nastos, Sexual Assault Unit.” With the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder he logged into his email and started deleting junk.
“Yeah, I have all my files here, where else would I keep them? Umm, that one’s not really standing out by name. Yeah, that is pretty gross, but this is the Sexual Assault Unit — all of these stories are disgusting. Those circumstances aren’t really standing out for me. Harper file? What can I say, the guy’s not a productive citizen. Listen, I’ve got four uniforms and a road sergeant helping me with a warrant in an hour to bust that guy. Tell you what, I’ll call back when I’m done with this mess tomorrow afternoon, okay? Yes, Inspector.”
He hung up without taking his eyes from the computer screen. He turned to the officer seated at the desk behind his.
“Hey Jacques, where’d the new inspector come from, Walmart?”
Jacques Lapierre had been Nastos’ partner for two years. He was scrawny with black hair and spoke with a deep voice. He appeared one hundred percent native, although his mother was Irish. Jacques was promoted to detective at thirty-five for his work in the robbery unit and considered working sex crimes to be punishment. Hearing haunting stories of child abuse wasn’t his idea of a good time.
Jacques turned to meet Nastos, saying, “The guy’s half-retarded, Nastos. He belongs in the Safety Village.”
“Can you come with me for a warrant? It won’t take long.”
Jacques started closing off his computer and putting a few files away. “I’ve been itching to get out of this frigging place. I hate hockey. I’ll give Jen Baker a call; I’m sure she’d love to get out too.”
Nastos turned back to his phone and began dialling a number. “I’ll tell the roadies that we’re on the way.” Nastos spoke into the phone, “Hey Sarge, it’s Detective Nastos. Can your guys meet me a little earlier at the convenience store on James Street? Okay, see you then, thanks.”
The noise coming from the hockey fans obscured the sound of Detective-Sergeant Koche approaching Nastos and Jacques’ work area. Koche like the first part of the word kosher. He resembled a somewhat taller and uglier Napoleon. He had penetrating blue eyes, made creepier by the fact that they bulged out of his head slightly. It likely wasn’t genetic, Nastos had decided. He probably developed it over time from being wound so tight. It was like a release valve and you could probably tell the barometric pressure in his head by measuring how far out they stuck at a particular time. When he got mad, he would stare in a way that was probably not supposed to be comical. Lik
e all perfectionists, he was a micro-manager as well as imperfect. “Where the hell have you been?” he began.
Nastos turned around and watched as he tried to puff his chest out. But with that shit-locker of an abdomen running at max capacity, it wasn’t very intimidating.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Nastos asked.
Jacques turned back to his desk and tried to put the show on of being both very busy and very invisible. “Here we go,” he muttered under his breath.
“Listen, Nastos,” Koche began, “I had a conversation with Sergeant Lister not long ago. He said that he and a few of his guys had a warrant with you today, but that you two hadn’t talked yet. It’s unprofessional to leave him in the dark, don’t you think?”
“It’s for an hour from now,” Nastos said, trying to hold back his anger. “I just got off the phone with him. It’s all under con —”
“If it was under control, Nastos, I wouldn’t have to take your phone calls.”
Nastos slowly stood up, the backs of his knees pushing his chair back with a loud scrape. He took a slow deep breath, which was completely ineffective in calming him down, and clenched his hands tightly into white-knuckled fists. He considered whether this was finally the time to just beat the shit out of Koche and get it over with. With some people, there is just no talking and this goof was one of them. Nastos brought his face close to Koche’s, whose eyes became filled with a stupid wonder.
Koche did what Nastos expected: he flinched. He took a step back then a long slow gulp. Nastos noticed that although the sounds from the hockey game were still going on, the shouting and jeering from the spectators had stopped. All eyes had turned to him and Koche.
He strained to speak softly, barely controlled. “I don’t know what your problem is, Koche, but I’ve been doing this job since long before you got here and I’ll be doing it long after you’re gone. I don’t need to be micro-managed, so why don’t you just back off?” He looked directly into Koche’s eyes.
Koche’s face was flushed red. Veins stuck out on his neck and forehead and he did all he ever knew to do: he yelled. “You think you’re being micro-managed? No, you’re being babysat. There’s more to this job than arresting people; you have to treat people with courtesy and respect, especially superior officers. I could have you in the bicycle unit writing parking tickets by the end of the week, if you don’t smarten up.”
Nastos needed Koche to throw the first punch so he could respond in kind. “Is that an image that runs through your mind from time to time, me in tight bicycle shorts? Guess what I heard about you was right.”
Koche screamed, “I can’t believe what you just said, Nastos.”
“Actually,” Nastos corrected, “it’s Detective Nastos, Detective-Sergeant Koche.” That ought to do it. He’s going to throw the punch and pave the way for me.
Koche got to the level of frustration that he often reached and stammered a lame response. “Make sure Detective is on your resumé when you apply to the spca. And get the fuck out of the office.”
Koche turned and fumed out of the room. A dumbfounded wayward detective accidentally found himself in Koche’s path and was greeted with a cordial, “Move the fuck over,” as Koche shoved his way past.
Nastos noticed the faces in the office; shocked but not entirely surprised. A few detectives shook their heads as if to say, Nastos, you’re playing with fire.
Jacques spoke as he stood up, grabbing his coat. “You know, you should probably chase him down and un-fuck yourself before it’s too late.”
“It’s just not in me to suck ass. Who could possibly have any respect for that moron? Screw him.”
Jacques swung his coat on and locked his cabinets. “Nastos, if not because he’s our boss then maybe because he’s the Inspector’s puppy dog. The two of them can send you anywhere in the police service, you know that. And they hold grudges, Nastos; they’ll keep you on their naughty list till they get you. He’ll get you kicked out of here if you’re not careful.”
Nastos shrugged. “And get me away from child molesters and perverts? A big part of me thinks they’d be doing me a favour.”
They walked to the door, past the other detectives who rediscovered hockey. He overheard one snicker to another, “There goes Nasty Nastos,” followed by a few laughs.
Jacques ignored it and spoke quietly. “Nastos, see it from Dave’s point of view. One more promotion and he gets the company car, golf membership, probably even the ceremonial helmet with the antlers. If he identifies and corrects a problem employee, he looks like a hero. His rank can be dangerous.”
Nastos knew that Jacques was only trying to help. It only took the first week of working together for Nastos to figure out that Jacques was the most trustworthy partner that he’d ever had. “Well, my plan is to do my thing and soon enough he’ll get his promotion and some new blowhard will be here trying to make a name for himself so I can get a fresh start.”
“Well, as far as team building goes, you at least have style. Really, who goes up to their narcissist boss and implies that he’s gay in front of a squad of detectives?”
Nastos smiled. “Yeah, let’s get out of here. Maybe we can find the chief and call him a cross-dresser.”
NASTOS WALKED UP TO THE four uniformed officers who were standing in the parking lot of a convenience store, sipping coffees. It was barely above freezing with no snow on the ground. All of the cops were men: three were fairly young, in their twenties, and Sergeant Lister was at least thirty-five, well over six feet tall — a not-so-gentle giant of a man. Jen Baker and Jacques got out of their car and joined them. Jen was the best sexual assault officer he had ever heard of. At barely five feet tall, maybe 110 pounds, with long blond hair and a youthful face at thirty-two, Jen could connect with victims when other detectives failed. Standing near Sergeant Lister, she looked like a child herself.
Nastos smiled as he got close enough to address the officers. “Hey guys, thanks for coming early.”
“No problem, Nastos,” Lister said.
He began, “Okay, I know you’re busy, so I won’t waste too much of your time. I’ve got a copy of the warrant for everyone to read and sign.” Nastos passed it out. The officers signed it with barely a glance. Nastos continued, “Basically it’s an entry and arrest warrant. Page two is search and seizure. We want computer files, disks, camcorders and tapes and anything else like that. Dude’s name is Sean Harper; this is his picture.” Nastos passed out some photos. “You’ve all read the file. He works at a video rental store. He lives alone and has no kids of his own. He’s raped three kids who will go to trial and six that we know of who won’t.”
Lister was the only one to speak. “Child molester, eh — he’s probably going to resist arrest, then I’m probably going to kick his ass.” A few of the officers exchanged smiles. Watching Lister jackhammer that special someone could be a thing of beauty.
Nastos had to try to give the appearance of wanting them to take it easy. “While I certainly can’t disagree with your thinking, sir, my name is going on the arrest report so if it’s all the same, I’d like to take this guy in all in one piece. Any questions?” They all shook their heads no, disappointed.
He could have confirmed the officer’s suspicion about the man becoming combative with police, could have said he’s resisted police before. It was part of policing jargon, the code words to say, “Beat him into a coma, I’ll fix the paperwork and buy you drinks after.” There were times when Nastos had given the pack of wolves the scent of blood, but not this time. With Koche’s eyes on him, he couldn’t take risks like trusting anyone except his partner, Jacques.
Nastos directed the last of the troops. “Detective Baker, you’re first one in the door.”
“Sure thing, Nastos.”
“And you,” he pointed to a lanky rookie in the back with a nametag that read Post. “Take the fastest guy from your shift here
with you around back in case buddy bolts. The rest of you come up with me.”
Despite having one hundred percent confidence in Baker, Nastos still felt a certain amount of protectiveness for her. At her size, if Harper was going to make a stand Nastos would rather she not have front-row tickets to a brawl. But the shortest officer usually went in first so the guys back in the line could see what they were walking into. And she signed up for this job and never asked for special treatment, so he wasn’t going to offer her any.
IT WAS A FOUR-STOREY BUILDING. The entire first floor was mixed commercial places: a Chinese food place, dry-cleaners and massage parlour. The elevator was too small to hold all of the cops so they wedged the door open to put it out of service, then took the stairs. The line of officers trudged up the winding staircase, led by Sergeant Lister and Detective Nastos. The smell of stale sweat and damp hung in the air. Nastos consciously avoided scraping against the walls, which were coated with a kind of filth best not contemplated.
Sergeant Lister read Nastos’ face. “You miss working on the road, Detective?”
“I miss kicking down doors; I don’t miss the shit-hole apartment part.”
“You got to take the good with the bad and the ugly.” Lister opened the door into the third floor hallway.
Nastos, Lister and the other officers took positions a few doors down from Harper’s apartment. Nastos keyed the mic to his radio and spoke to Post. “You in position at the back?” There was a pause. Poor skinny kid’s likely looking for something to eat.
“It’s all ten-four on this end.” The radio crackled.
Jen crept up beside Nastos. They smiled dryly to each other. Nastos moved to the suspect’s door. They all withdrew their pistols, pointing them down to the floor.
The door had a walnut veneer with a peephole; it smelled of urethane and piss. Nastos knocked. “Pizza guy.” There was a noise, a movement. “Pizza guy,” he said again. “Hey pal, you want your pizza or not?” This time the movement sounded rushed, reckless. Glancing at the sergeant, Nastos whispered, “Someone’s in there screwing around,” then nodded sideways at the door.