by R. D. Cain
NASTOS THREW THE PHONE BACKWARD to Carscadden and stole a glance at Dewar. “North told me the names on the list — two of the four, anyways: you and your daughter Abby. I can guess the other two.”
Dewar said nothing. Carscadden leaned between the two of them. “You killed Irons?” he asked.
“No,” she said. Her response was weak. Nastos took her reply to mean that she hadn’t swung the bat or that she didn’t feel guilty about it. He couldn’t just give up and leave her fate in North’s hands. North would take her for all she was worth, then turn her in, or worse, let Koche do it and turn himself into a hero. No. North had messed with his wife one time too many and there was no way Nastos wanted anyone punished for killing the monster who had hurt Josie.
Nastos took a deep breath and committed himself. Once he was over the last hill, out of North’s view, he locked up the brakes, coming to a stop as fast as he could. He reached across and opened Dewar’s door. “Run, go there!” He pointed to a loading bay in one of the industrial buildings. Before she could say anything, he unclipped her seat belt and shoved her out on to the road. She landed on her knees, scraping them. Carscadden piled out on top of her. They could only sit dumbfounded as they watched what he did next.
WHEN NORTH CAME OVER THE hill, he didn’t stand a chance. of all the things he expected to see, the lawyer’s truck racing up the hill backwards right at him was not even on the radar. He had slowed a bit, anticipating the corner at the bottom of the hill, but the closing speed between the two vehicles was still close to a hundred kilometres an hour. With a deafening crash, Carscadden’s truck rammed right into North’s, hitting dead on. The front end of North’s car and the rear of Carscadden’s truck were flung up into the air from the momentum, both vehicles seemingly disintegrating. There was the hissing of hoses, mechanical death rattles.
The front third of North’s car disappeared, and so did the pickup truck as far as the rear axle. The airbags burst open. Their powdery film-like talcum powder that allowed for a smooth deployment covered everything in a small radius around both vehicles. North’s engine dropped from his car as soon as the motor mounts fractured from the impact, cratering into the asphalt. There were no flames, but fragmentation from glass and plastic had exploded in all directions. The sound was like a plane crash-landing. The vehicles lurched back to the ground, the springs creaking to a stop, and it became eerily quiet.
Carscadden got to his feet, his knees feeling loose and rubbery as he ran over to what was left of his truck. “Steve! Steve, what the hell did you do?” The back half of his truck was demolished almost up to the back of the driver’s seat, where the remnants of North’s car began. Broken glass was everywhere and he could smell the thick, sickly odour of radiator fluid. And blood. He could smell blood.
He must be dead. That was an awful impact. He heard a cough, then a second, and then a bloodied hand grasped the edge of the door frame where the glass used to be. He ran up to find Nastos, slumped over to the passenger side, trying to pull himself up. Nastos unclasped the seat belt and began thrusting himself against the door to get it open. He didn’t even seem to notice that Carscadden was standing right next to him.
“Nastos, what the hell were you thinking?” Carscadden asked. He tried pulling on the door, but the mangled frame had bent the door shut.
“I’m okay, just help me get out of here.” Nastos’ clothes were covered in blood and broken glass. There was powder from the airbag on his chest. Dewar came over and the two of them helped Nastos climb out the window. He was warm and slippery with blood, but Carscadden hardly noticed. It wasn’t until Nastos was out that he even thought about North and his gun.
The three of them walked back to the other car and peered inside. North had smashed his face off the door post to his left. His neck was broken, his head hanging at an impossible angle. His eyes bulged, staring blankly into nothing; blood trickled out of the sockets and from his ears. Congealing blood trailed down from both corners of his open mouth.
They silently evaluated the dead man.
“Whoops.” Carscadden said.
Nastos rubbed his chin slowly. “Whoops.”
“Now what?” Dewar asked.
Nastos shrugged his shoulders. “Ang, Viktor won’t be long. Is there anyone you think you need to call about this?”
She thought for a moment. “I have everything we should need.”
25
October 5, 2011
A REPORTER STOOD ON THE wooden footbridge in the Cherry Beach Park, the lake behind her, the sun casting a warm, honeyed light on her beautiful but tired features. She spoke to the camera confidently, as if she knew all there was to know about what she was reporting for the city news.
“An elderly couple taking their golden retriever for a walk this sunny Sunday morning found something that is becoming far too common in Cherry Beach these days — another dead man. They found him floating in the lake, face down, the victim of multiple and severe traumas. Disgraced detective Steve Nastos is currently on trial for a previous murder in the area, but investigators on this case say it’s too early to determine if the deaths are connected . . .”
The camera panned out to show cops near the lake taking pictures and measuring things. Other officers were trying, and failing, to loop a rope around the body to pull it to shore. A fireman, a twenty-five-year vet with a smoke in his mouth speared the corpse’s thigh with his pike pole and beached the body with a good pull as the horrified couple looked on. Kojak, the retriever, on the other hand, with his broad, toothy Hollywood smile, didn’t seem terribly shaken up by the experience.
THEY SAT. MONTGOMERY WAVED TO Dewar, then spoke. “please, carry on where you left off, Ms. Dewar.”
She stood and walked to the lectern with the new file in her hand. She separated a copy from the paperclip, giving one to Carscadden and one to the bailiff to pass to the judge. Montgomery began flipping through the pages.
“Your Honour, I have just received this file this morning. It’s in relation to a dead man found at Cherry Beach earlier today; did you hear about the death on the news?”
“No, Ms. Dewar, I did not,” the judge replied. He seemed thoughtful, wondering where she was going with the information.
“Well, sir, the body of a man was recovered — a white man, approximately forty years old. He had apparently been beaten to death, rather severe injuries. He was found floating not twenty meters from where our victim — or rather the victim in this case — was found. The lead investigator for this occurrence, Detective Clancy Brown, who testified before us just a few days ago, had the preliminary file sent to me.”
“And . . . Ms. Dewar?” He leaned forward.
“In light of the need for a review of all of the facts and circumstances, Your Honour, the prosecution seeks to have all of the charges against Detective Nastos stayed for the foreseeable future.”
“Are you telling me I can retire a few months early, Ms. Dewar?”
“Yes, sir.”
Montgomery was not yet convinced. “What kind of linking circumstances were there for the record, Ms. Dewar, if this is the last time we may speak to this case in open court?”
“Your Honour, police identified the dead man and conducted a search of his apartment, a search that is apparently still underway. They have found property belonging to Dr. Irons.”
“His business card, Ms. Dewar?”
“Quite a lot of pain medication, OxyContin and the like.” She held up a picture. “They were found in a false panel in his closet. Looks like he kept some mementos for personal use.”
Montgomery still didn’t seem convinced. Nastos started to get the feeling that to Montgomery, the news was too good to be true. “What’s the theory on that, Ms. Dewar?”
“This man ran a private investigation business; he’s run loan sharks and enforcers. Possibly, Dr. Irons was a murder for hire. It’s too early to say, but
certainly on the surface it appears like a much stronger case than the one against Detective Nastos.”
Montgomery adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Carscadden, any comments?”
Carscadden rose to his feet like he was pulling two sandbags up with him. “No, sir. The defense is content with my client being released with a stay in proceedings so we can begin the civil case against the police service and the crown attorney’s office.”
“Good answer,” Montgomery replied. “I hereby order the immediate release of Detective Nastos and order that all charges be stayed for one year. In that time, if the prosecution does not restart its case, all the charges will be irrevocably withdrawn.”
The gavel struck the block and with that, Nastos was a free man.
Judge Montgomery stood up and the bailiff took his cue. “All rise,” he said, and the judge disappeared behind the door to his chambers.
They walked outside the courtroom, joining the masses in the hallway, then down to the main doors where they exited the building. A scrum of reporters surrounded them. Carscadden winced in pain whenever his arm was jostled. Nastos wore a tired expression of disdain for the camera lights and microphones being thrust in his face. Carscadden stopped Nastos when they reached the top of the steps and they waited for reporters to take up positions with their cameras.
One of the reporters, an ancient man who probably could have retired ten years ago, had the official first question when everyone was set. “Another dead body found in Cherry Beach, a dramatic turn of events — how much of that was a factor in charges against your client being dropped?”
“First,” Carscadden replied, “I knew and stated for the record that Detective Nastos was innocent, right from the start. What we have here is a culture in policing where it’s sometimes advantageous to turn on each other for personal gain, playing to the prejudices in the community, rather than doing the right thing, the thing the police are sworn to do, to properly investigate crimes. The fact that police turned on one of their own, an officer with such a stellar reputation, and attempted to sandbag him for personal gain only shows that none of us is safe. If it can happen to a detective, it can certainly happen to disadvantaged youth, the economically marginalized. I invite you all to follow the lawsuits that will be filed soon and I would be happy to discuss it further with you all at a future date in my office. For now, I ask for a little time for myself and my client. Detective Nastos would like to have some time with his daughter, one of the real victims in all of this.”
“What kind of settlement are you looking for?” a second reporter asked.
“One with a lot of pretty zeros. This circus cost Detective Nastos his job and his reputation, not to mention the emotional and physical scars from prison. He was not afforded protective custody, which is essentially mandatory in such cases. Be reminded that all of this tore him away from his daughter when she needed him most. Heads will roll. I can’t wait.”
Carscadden and Nastos got into the waiting taxi and drove off.
26
THEY SAT IN SCOTT’S OFFICE opposite each other, with his desk between them. Koche had been a cop for nearly twenty years, had seen dozens of guilty men avoid a conviction for murder, but they had all had dream team lawyers, deep pockets and political connections. Koche couldn’t believe that Nastos had done it with none of those. That Paki bitch let this guy go. For whatever reason, she let him get away with murder. He and Koche had handed her a career-maker — all she had to do was be able to read and speak, the case file spoke for itself. He knew first-hand that Scott had obtained convictions with evidence far more tenuous. “Where do you think it all went wrong, Jeff?”
“You had everything all planned out, Koche. You tell me?”
“Dewar,” he said. “She was driving the train when it went off the tracks. My guy North should look into the story. I’ll tell him to go all the way back to when she was born in Calcutta, or wherever the hell she came from.”
Koche went to the window and pulled the cord to open the wooden slats. The sidewalks were nearly barren; the morning commuters were already at work and the first blustery winds had sent the rest to the underground transit, away from the first below-freezing day. The sun had little interest in making an appearance. Instead it only cast the meagre, greyed overcast light that a godless underworld might deserve. He knew that at best, this Nastos mess would put him in career purgatory.
“But I’ve been trying to reach my guy — I even went to his apartment. I must have called him twenty times, he’s not answering. It’s like he fell off the face of the earth.” Koche pulled out his BlackBerry; there were no new messages.
Scott turned from the window. He crossed then uncrossed his arms, eventually sliding his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “I don’t like this, Koche. The list is out there, the tapes are out there and your guy is gone. He flipped, he must have. We’re fucked.”
“No, he’s a druggie. He’s wasted someplace, spending his newfound wealth in advance is all.”
Koche’s heart skipped a beat when Scott’s secretary, Janice, walked right into his office without knocking.
“Mr. Scott?” she said.
Scott was incensed. “What the fuck did you just do, Janice? You can’t just come in here —”
Behind Janice, two men in dark business suits entered, strangers to Scott, who with their alien presence had obviously committed an even worse infraction in his eyes. Janice left, sharing a mischievous grin with one of the two men.
“Mr. Scott?” one of the men said. “I’m a process server. You’re getting sued, buddy.”
Koche grinned, enjoying watching the guy call Scott buddy; Scott’s skin visibly crawled. “Sued? For what?” Scott asked.
“I guess the malicious and wrongful prosecution of Detective Steve Nastos.” He tried to hand Scott a manila envelope with his name typed on the front, but Scott wouldn’t touch it, so he threw it on the desk in front of Scott instead. “Oh, and here’s another one. This is for Human Rights violations in the workplace.”
Scott stared at the envelopes, then at Koche, who could only shrug a response. Scott eyed the process server, his jaw clenched as he thought of what to say. There was a knock at the office door. Koche vaguely recognized the two plainclothes detectives standing by the door. They were dressed in matching black suits and by their crew cuts and rigid stances, they looked like prototypical secret service agents. Koche recognized the shorter man, Owen, from Internal Affairs.
“I don’t know who the hell you two are, but I’m in the middle of something. Come back in ten minutes,” Scott demanded.
The process servers smiled to the cops, then back at Scott, then excused themselves. Squeezing past the cops, they disappeared down the hallway. Owen stepped forward.
“Yes, Mr. Scott, we’re with Professional Standards. It seems those men have finished with you, so we’d like you to pack your things and vacate the premises immediately. I’ve got two officers coming over to make sure you leave in a timely manner.”
“All this for a petty lawsuit? We get sued all the time — lawsuits mean we’re doing our job.” Scott was incredulous.
“We heard the audio tape recordings, Mr. Scott,” the officer began. “The way you have been treating your subordinates . . . the Attorney General himself called us and asked that we advise you that you’re suspended.”
“This is an overreaction, it’s —”
“It’s about time is what it is, Mr. Scott,” the man said.
“Pardon me?”
The officer only answered by way of a full smile. Koche knew what the cops were thinking. The only thing better than a pay raise to a cop was screwing over a weaselling lawyer. Koche had to admit that Scott was as slippery as they came, but he had always fought on the cops’ side. Koche stood back, choosing to remain silent and impartial. He tried to squeeze past Owen and the other officer.
Owen asked. �
��Where do you think you’re going?”
“This is getting a little awkward. I’m out of here.” He turned back to Scott. “Give me a call when you get this sorted out, Jeff. I’m here for you, buddy.” Then he left, walking down the hallway to the main doors. He didn’t like watching the world crash down all around Scott. It was ugly the way they were all ganging up on the man.
Andrews’ voice called from behind him. “Koche?”
“Not now, I’m in the middle of something.” The last thing I need is to be dragged into that mess. I’ll get back to the office and see what I can do to sort this thing out with North. He got to the double glass doors, opening one and stepping out into the cold grey air. There, Koche found Detectives Weiss and Crockford standing waiting for him. Weiss grabbed his elbow as he tried to walk past, but he brushed it off and tried to keep going.
“Hey, get your hands off me, Weiss.”
Crockford grabbed his arm and squeezed harder; this time, Koche stopped. “Excuse me, Detective-Sergeant Koche, I’m Detective Crockford and this is Detective Weiss. We’re with Homicide.”
“Good for you, goofs. Now get out of my way.” Koche tried to walk, but Crockford squeezed tighter, holding him still. “You’re not going anywhere until we talk.”
“I outrank you, Crockford, so watch yourself. And you can let me the fuck go.” Koche tried to push past them, but they shoved him back into the doors.
“What the fuck do you guys want?” He was mad enough to start swinging, but thought better of it. Homicide? Who the hell’s dead? Koche, as it turned out, wasn’t going to be too happy with the answer.
“Your buddy North’s been found dead in Cherry Beach.”
Oh. “I’m not sure I know who you’re talking about.”