Cherry Beach Express

by R. D. Cain

  “You would have done the same for me,” Nastos said, shrugging.

  Carscadden pursed his lips but said nothing. For a while there he thought he was going to die, and that was with Nastos there. If he had been alone and had a gun, he would have used it on Troy out of fear for his life. And if I had come with Hopkins, and it had been her in trouble, I would have killed Troy for sure. I would have shot at him till I ran out of bullets. Is everyone just one bad circumstance away from killing anyone else?

  As they drove out of Flemingdon, south on Don Mills, then south on the Don Valley Parkway to Eastern Avenue, pedestrians began to reappear. Carscadden watched them, wondering where they were going, the middle-aged, the elderly, the young. Streetlights strobing past the pitted windshield caught his eye, illuminating a million tiny divots. It was inevitable that over time, the glass would fracture.

  13

  September 27, 2011

  NASTOS SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR surveying the jury. Trucker Billy-Jim with his Wyatt Earp moustache was ready to take on the world with his ball cap on and a coffee in his hand. The crime fiction fan couldn’t have been happier if she was at a hanging. They were keen and attentive, just the way he wanted them for the next witness, his supervising jackass, David Koche. Koche didn’t tolerate women in positions of authority very well. With Dewar running the court for the prosecution and asking the questions, there was a good chance there would be some fireworks.

  Nastos turned away from the jury when he heard what sounded like a sigh come from Carscadden. He still seemed drained from last night. He sat like his back was stiff and he was in pain. His injuries gave him the appearance that he had butchered himself shaving, his face flushed on both cheeks, the right worse than the left, and he kept rubbing his ears. Nastos thought back to the sound of the gun’s rapport and the image of Carscadden’s face, illuminated in frozen horror by the brightness of the muzzle blast. Those bullets must have been closer than I first thought. Maybe if Hopkins hears about what a hero he was last night, she’ll take some pity on the poor kid and screw him half to death. Might straighten his back out and make him forget about the ears. He glanced at Carscadden and smirked.

  Dewar brushed her hair back, then got to her feet. “Your Honour, the prosecution calls Detective-Sergeant David Koche to the stand, please.”

  The judge waved a hand to the court clerk who spoke into the paging phone. “The Crown calls Detective-Sergeant Koche, to courtroom 101, please.”

  Koche had been sitting in the front row of the public seating in the courtroom. He stood up, trying vainly to stick his chest out farther than his stomach. His arms swayed as he held his elbows away from his body, wanting his measly shoulders to look broad. It looked more like he had picked the wrong day to try a new underarm deodorant.

  Carscadden caught Nastos’ look of contempt and nudged him. “Nastos, put the daggers away — the jury . . .”

  “Sorry.” Nastos put pen to paper on his notepad and scribbled his wish for Koche to do something to himself — something biologically impossible.

  Once Koche was sworn in, Dewar glanced up from her notes at the podium and began speaking like she could not be more bored.

  “Detective, I’ve been reading Detective Nastos’ personnel file from work. He’s —”

  Carscadden stood to his feet quickly and interjected. “I object, Your Honour. With all due respect, I know where my colleague is going with this and I don’t see how that line of questioning could be relevant unless the prosecution is planning on producing any supporting documentation that I can then essentially re-try without the jury here. Aside from that, it’s all prejudicial to the accused, regardless.”

  The judge tapped a finger on his lips. “Would that be a touchy subject, Mr. Carscadden?”

  Carscadden said, “Your Honour, for the record, I object to the presentation of my client’s work record since it is brought forward to highlight aspects of his policing career unrelated to the matter at hand.”

  Dewar had waited; when Montgomery acknowledged her, she spoke. “It will become evident shortly, Your Honour. It relates to both motive and means, sir.”

  “Overruled, for now, Mr. Carscadden, but you can always appeal the decision. Happy?”

  “Overjoyed, sir.”

  Some of the jury chuckled a little at his reply; as he took his seat, Nastos only shrugged a response.

  Dewar picked up where she had left off. “Now, as I was saying, Officer Koche, Detective Nastos has been under Police Conduct Investigations four times in just the last four years.”

  Carscadden barely stood when he spoke out. “I’m waiting for a question, Your Honour. If Madam Dewar is just going to testify, might I suggest my mother could take the stand? She’s a little older now and would love the company of such a charming woman.”

  Montgomery tried vainly to suppress a smile. Most of the jury were finding Mr. Carscadden amusing as well. Dewar got the message: blanket statements weren’t going to get past Carscadden. She tried again. “Detective Koche, has Detective Nastos ever taken suspects to Cherry Beach for questioning?”

  Koche finally got a word in. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us the nature of the complaints, please?”

  “Of course. Detective Nastos was accused of beating or otherwise coercing incriminating statements from suspects on all four occasions. While circumstances were nearly identical in each occurrence, there was never enough evidence for a conviction.” Koche waved his hand apologetically to the jury as if to say We tried to get him before it got this far.

  “All four of them, nearly identical?” Dewar clarified.

  “Yes, and every time the charges were dropped.”

  Carscadden got to his feet again. “Your Honour, this was the nature of my objection. What’s the point of being found not guilty if the prosecution can use it in subsequent trials in a way that implies otherwise?”

  Montgomery offered some advice. “Handle it on cross, Mr. Carscadden; if you make the same objection again, it’s contempt of court. Sound like a good deal?”

  “You’re a regular Monty Hall, sir.” He sat again and grabbed the scratch pad to make a few notes.

  More of the jury were laughing with Carscadden than last time, but Nastos had never heard of a single judge letting a lawyer humour themselves into the good graces of a jury.

  “Mr. Carscadden, the court cautions you that your glib remarks have no place in my courtroom. If you want to practice comedy, then perhaps you should save your act for Yuk Yuk’s.”

  Carscadden stood with his head lowered like a beaten dog. “My apologies, sir.”

  Dewar began again; “Officer Koche —”

  “That’s Detective-Sergeant Koche,” he corrected her.

  “Yes, Detective Koche, can you tell me the similarities between the professional misconduct circumstances and this murder in relation to Detective Nastos?”

  Nastos saw the frustration in Koche building. Dewar had been a prosecutor long enough to know the police rank structure. She was mangling his precious title every chance she got and it was pissing him off.

  Koche pursed his lips and mumbled something to himself before continuing. “Of course. In the Nastos complaints, various men, all later convicted of sexual crimes, were taken to Cherry Beach and beaten very close to where the dead dentist was found. Each beating in the complaints was progressively more violent. There were certainly no witnesses and subsequently not enough evidence to link Nastos to the allegations for a conviction. All of the victims were men. They all swore under oath that Nastos did it.”

  Dewar asked, “What was there for physical evidence, Officer?”

  Koche didn’t correct her this time; he’d given up. “Well, he allegedly used phone books to prevent bruises and struck the victims in places that are hard to bruise anyway.”

  Trucker Billy-Jim’s face squinted up. A guy his size probably ca
used bruises just by grabbing people. It would be perplexing to a guy that size that you could cause damage to a person without leaving marks. The elderly Agatha Christie fan must have missed the episode of csi that covered it, too. Confusion and raised eyebrows dotted the rest of the jury.

  Nastos saw that the jury needed a better explanation by the slightly confused expressions on their faces.

  Dewar asked, “Where could a person strike another person that would not leave a mark, Detective?”

  “The head is tough to bruise because of the hair. A good strike with a baton shielded by a phone book would still rattle a brain without bruising. The same technique was used on the victims’ testicles. They don’t really bruise either. In the last occurrence, it was alleged that Nastos held the man on his back by his neck and poured a mug of lake water into his mouth. He basically water-boarded the guy. That doesn’t leave marks either.”

  “Water-boarded?” Dewar’s jaw dropped. “That’s torture.”

  “Sure it is,” Koche replied, then corrected himself. “Well, to everyone except President George Bush.”

  The jury snickered, as did some spectators in the gallery. Nastos noticed that James Whitmore, his friend from the other night, was only a few rows back. If there was one person in the gallery who wanted him cleared, it was that man. Or maybe he was just here to see gruesome pictures of the tortured dentist. He caught Nastos looking at him and pumped a fist in solidarity. Nastos offered a weak smile then turned back to the trial.

  “Who investigated the accused in these matters, Detective?”

  Koche replied confidently, “I did.”

  “You were in Professional Standards at that time, before becoming the accused’s supervisor in Sexual Assault?”

  “Yes.”

  Dewar flipped to the last page in her notes and took a moment, scanning the page with a pen. “That’s all my questions for this witness, Your Honour. I would ask though for permission to possibly call him again, as he may help with various timelines in this matter.”

  Montgomery peered over his glasses to Carscadden. “Any objections, Mr. Carscadden?”

  Carscadden barely lifted himself from the seat to answer. “None, sir — whatever works.”

  “Then you can begin with the witness,” the judge said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Carscadden stood up. He took a discreet breath while flipping through at his hastily scratched notes, then approached the lectern to begin his questioning.

  “Detective-Sergeant Koche, let me see if I understand this. Four allegations of severe beatings, from independent victims, over a span of four years, each more severe than the last. Each is investigated independently and my client is exonerated every time, unanimously?”

  Koche obviously did not want to answer that question, but he knew it was inevitable. “There wasn’t enough evidence for a conviction.”

  “And you were the investigator for those occurrences, right?” Carscadden asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “Then, in this case, my client is accused of killing a man who turns up in the same place, beaten to death. Again my client is accused?”

  Koche answered coolly. “Yes, sir, the connection is obvious.”

  “With no physical evidence?”

  “The testimonies were nearly identical, the only difference was that the violence increased with each incident and that the last man was not in a position to complain because he didn’t survive the attack.”

  Nastos saw Billy-Jim turn his head to Carscadden as if wondering what he was finding so difficult to grasp. Others were nodding slightly, agreeing with Koche. Carscadden’s face twisted up; he seemed to be speaking to himself as he worked through it all. “You know what, it seems to me, sir, isn’t it possible . . . actually, first let’s try it this way.” Carscadden went back to the podium and flicked back to the first page of his notes. “I realize that in many ways you’re an expert on sexual crimes and sexual criminals.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Carscadden.” Nastos smirked when Koche’s chest puffed out as best it could, like he couldn’t agree with him more. Koche was much more relaxed with Carscadden than Dewar; he always got Koche’s title right. Calling him an expert was a great idea, Carscadden.

  “Is this true, then? We often hear from the media that sexual predators often communicate with each other on the internet, sharing luring secrets, pictures, pornographic literature — is that really true?”

  “Yes, Mr. Carscadden,” Koche straightened and turned to the jury as if he wanted to get the educational point across to them. “They often share tips with each other, helping each other become better at luring and exploiting children.”

  Carscadden tried again. “Then, back to the point I was going to make earlier. These alleged victims of abuse by Detective Nastos — I submit to you, sir, that their stories were entirely made up. That they came to you one at a time as they got caught with nothing more than lies of abuse, possibly using a template one of them created. And that each one was more violent because each previous allegation was not strong enough for a conviction?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Carscadden, but that’s preposterous.”

  “So, these men molest children, post it on the internet, share pictures and evade the cops for years. They destroy the lives of their nieces, nephews or strangers, but you think that they would never cross the line of lying to you to try to get off the charges?”

  Koche’s face flushed red and his eyes narrowed on Carscadden. “Those allegations were true, all of them. It’s obvious. Especially in light of the murder.”

  “Well, I’ve got to say, Officer Koche, it would be a lot more obvious if my client had been convicted even once of the previous incidents. And as far as I’m concerned, all you’ve told the jury is that either you’re a terribly naive person, believing what you want to believe from the scum of the earth, or that you’ve personally tried to sandbag a good officer repeatedly and you’re not very good at it.”

  Koche’s jaw clenched tight. Nastos had never seen Koche so angry. Carscadden had just hit his first home run of the trial, assuming Koche wasn’t about to jump out of the witness box and beat him to death.

  “Your Honour?” Dewar asked.

  Before the judge could speak, Carscadden waved him off, saying, “That’s okay, Your Honour, I withdraw my last comment,” then, almost indignantly, he added, “I’m done with this witness.”

  14

  WHILE NASTOS WAS TASTING HIS first hint of optimism at court as his lawyer tore into Detective Koche, North was driving up St. George Street near Davenport Road to see another house with his buying agent, Madeleine Nastos. It was a perfect fall day; the cast from the sun reflected from brick-faced houses like in a travel poster. He had a green tea by his side and a cell phone up to his ear and was cruising slowly as he read the house numbers passing by.

  “Yeah, Eade, I’ll see you in an hour or so. I just have to pay a little visit to my next girlfriend.” Some agents put For Sale signs in the stupidest places — some sellers don’t want them on the lawn at all. He hung up and stopped his car in front of the house.

  The entire street and a good portion of the neighbourhood were made up of bay-and-gables built at the turn of the century. The house for sale was Gothic revival with stained glass and bargeboards. This place could sell itself. Welcome to the Annex, Madeleine Nastos.

  She was standing on the front step, typing into her BlackBerry. North took the stairs two at a time.

  “Mr. Sitler, nice to see you again.” She extended her hand and North took it.

  “Yes, that’s right, you too.” She was as beautiful as last time. Her little pictures did her no justice. He felt a flush of heat rush through his body. Her smile was broad and genuine, and her eyes sparkled as if they were not strangers but longtime friends
.

  “Here, I have a key, let’s get inside.” She gently brushed against him as she put the key in the lock and opened the door. The innocent intrusion into his intimate space pushed his heart rate up twenty beats a minute as easily as anything. She smells like vanilla, he thought.

  “Well, come on in. If you love Gothic, you are going to love this place.” Madeleine kicked her shoes off and North did the same. He was disappointed that she didn’t have to bend over a little more to get the straps, but it didn’t stop him from ogling as best he could.

  “I love the feel — reminds me of the old vampire movies.” His eyes glimmered as he smiled. Madeleine’s smile dropped ever so slightly at the edges. Her eyes went to his neck. He wondered if she might have noticed the tattoo. With his high-collared shirt, it was little more than a blue stain.

  “Well, let’s get through the basics. Main floor laundry, walk-out kitchen to the back deck, hardwood throughout. It’s only been on the market for a week but I still thought it would be gone by now.” They strode from the kitchen to the living room.

  “Great atmosphere, very sensual,” he said.

  “They listed for 650, but they’ll take 635 if it’s a solid offer. I can’t remember, do you have a house to sell, Mr. Sitler?”

  “Umm, I see,” he avoided her gaze and typed into his BlackBerry. “Shall we check out the upstairs?”

  “You’re going to love it; the master has a fireplace and a nice soaker tub. If you’re single, this place will be perfect for you. Do you have kids?”

  “Sadly, no. You?”

  “One, and she gets busier every day.”

  North answered robotically, “Good for you. Married?” They went up the stairs; Madeleine pointed out the vaulted ceiling.

  “Yes, I’m married.”

  “Too bad.” He scanned her body up and down more obviously; he smiled, approving of what he saw.

  He noted a small change in her behaviour. She had become thoughtful instead of carefree. It turned him on to watch her beginning to feel like he might be a predator and she the prey. The change in her thinking changed her manner. And now she was conflicted as she tried to suppress her natural instinct to maintain the polite façade. Oh, Madeleine, you haven’t learned to trust yourself, have you?