by Wayne Purdy
Surprisingly, the wait wasn’t as long. When my number was called, I presented it to a woman named Karen. Karen disappeared and returned in minutes. She was empty-handed. “I’m sorry. I can’t access this file.”
“Why not?”
“The matter involves an assault. It’s a confidentiality thing. You know, to protect the identity of the victim. Those records cannot be released unless you fill out a Freedom of Information request.”
“Okay. Let’s do that.”
“It’ll take six to eight weeks.”
Cue internal screaming. I picked up my files and left without saying another word.
On my way home, I thought about the information gleaned from the court documents. Cutler earned a good living, a very good living, but his wife was the primary earner in the house. Did that rankle him? He was a macho guy. His whole identity was tied into how tough he was. Then there was the alcohol abuse. Nowak told me that Cutler’s drinking was out of hand, now there was proof that he beat her. Was this because of the booze? Or could it be something else, a deep-seated misogyny or a life of resentment? Guilt? None of this proved anything, but they were all pieces to the puzzle.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment and was greeted by Gus, his tail wagging like a propeller. I was getting attached to the little fellow, but I didn’t like being a slave to his routines, walking, feeding, sleeping. It seemed like I had to reorder my life around his. I’d be relieved when he was finally adopted. I took him outside for a quick walk. We walked by the front door of Pandora’s on our way to the little parkette across the street.
“Hey Heck.” It was Eff Bomb. He leaned against the wall and took a long drag from his cigarette.
“Eff Bomb,” I said. “It’s a little early, isn’t it?” I checked my phone. It was just after 2. Pandora’s opened at 11, and always had a few customers, even at that time. Mostly, they were older men, lonely or divorced, with money to burn and nowhere to burn it, or they were businessmen out for a liquid lunch while they closed deals and bragged about their financial portfolios. I despised the latter and felt sorry for the former. I didn’t usually see Eff Bomb this early in the day. He struck me as a late sleeper/
“Got nothin’ else to do. The old lady took the kid and split. She’s gone t’ spend some time with her mother. Give me time to get my shit together.” He said the last bit sarcastically. He clearly had no plans to get his shit together.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I’m between jobs,” Eff Bomb said, flashing me a yellowy smile. I was tempted to ask him where he got his money but resisted. It was probably better I didn’t know. “Cute dog.” He offered the puppy the back of his hand to sniff. Before long, the puppy was on his back, inviting belly rubs. I rolled my eyes. Clearly, he was no judge of character. I gave his leash a little tug and we went across the street so he could do his business.
Later, I thought again about Cutler. He was a powerful man, I couldn’t question him, at least not without repercussions. Zaki made it clear that he was off-limits, but Cutler was a career military man. He was used to structure and regimen. I could use that to my advantage. I climbed down the stairs and went through the back door of Pandora’s, passing Regards’ desk. He looked up at me and smiled.
“Heck. I didn’t think I’d see you until later. What can I do for you?”
I paused at his door. “Hi Regards. I’ve got a favour. Do you mind if I come in a little late tonight?”
Regards frowned. I knew it was going to be a busy night and that it was unfair to ask on such short notice. If it was a problem, I would just push back my plan a couple days. I didn’t want to. I felt like I wasn’t moving fast enough in this case as it was, if I slowed down, all momentum could be lost. Regards took out a journal and flipped through it, stopping at the schedules. He looked down, checking to see who else was in. I knew that T-Bone and Ross were scheduled. Both men were capable, especially T-Bone. T-Bone was a large, refrigerator-sized black man. He always wore a dark suit and sunglasses. His face was perpetually humourless. He looked like a secret service agent.
Ross was skinny as a rail. He wore the craziest outfits; skinny jeans, tiger print tank tops over a fashionably torn black tee with the sleeves removed, leather cavalier boots, and fur-fringed vests. His blond hair was shaved on the sides, styled into a mohawk. He looked like a Fortnight character that had magically come to life. Ross was also a seventh-degree black belt in Brazilian Ju Jitsu. He was as easy going as T-Bone was reserved, but he often took on a wise Zen master affectation that I personally found annoying.
“What time will you be in?”
“Nine. Ten at the latest.”
“Does this have anything to do with your investigation?” He asked.
“It does. I can’t say much, but I need to surveil a suspect.”
Regards raised his thick eyebrows. “That sounds exciting.”
“It’s really not. It’s mostly just sitting around in my car, waiting for something to happen.”
“Okay, Heck, but listen, I meant it when I told you that I would help you. I want to see you succeed. I just need you to give me more time to cover shifts.”
“I know, Regards. I’m sorry. It just came to me now.”
“Go get ‘em,” Regards said. “I’ll see you tonight. Ten sharp.”
I went back to my apartment. Cutler kept business hours. He worked until five. That meant I had time to kill. I gathered up the files and documents from the investigation and placed them onto the cheap Formica table. I had my notes about the Gracie Telford investigation, and the scant few documents provided by Bob Nowak. I had the passenger manifest that showed which soldiers were furloughed, including Nowak, before Gracie’s murder. I consulted my notebook. He said that he went home on a compassionate leave to attend his mother’s funeral. Two days later a second flight went out. The cargo manifest included Gracie’s body. I was also listed on the flight, in medical transport. Frank Bello was on it too, on his way to the military prison in Alberta.
I had the crime scene photos, showing Sandra wrapped up like a cocoon, and then displayed with her arms outstretched, like a butterfly. Her crotch was a bloody mess. Her penis was never recovered. Same with Gracie. I looked closely at the image and checked my notes. The cocoon-butterfly blanket was made from two separate blankets. The outer one was a dull brown and the inner one was a motley coloured pattern. I looked at the stitching. It was passably good, but clearly not the work of an expert. Any military man worth his salt could do rudimentary sewing. I could stitch together two blankets, no problem. So could James Cutler. Even the straps attaching the blanket to her wrists and ankles were not expertly done. from the photo, I could see that the fabric was uneven. They weren’t cut from any pattern. Someone eyeballed the job. It was just good enough. Function over form.
Sandra’s autopsy showed no signs of rape, so what was the point? I was missing some crucial piece of evidence, something that I knew could tie it all up, but I just couldn’t see the tree for the forest. Sighing, I re-examined the papers. Irwin Bobb assaulted Gracie, under orders from his commanding officer, Frank Bello, who himself was acting on behalf of Cutler. Bello told me Gracie was alive when he last saw her. He’d beaten her up, but she was still alive. He also told me that he had seen Cutler right after. The colonel was walking his dog near the vicinity of the assault. Bello assumed Cutler had finished her off. He seemed to respect that. It meant something to Bello that Cutler wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.
Sandra had a full social calendar that included her regular dates, and we know that she didn’t always have penetrative sex, or at least that she wasn't always the bottom. Jarrod Hunter confirmed that. Hunter also believed that one of her regulars was in the army. Was it possible that Cutler was that regular john, and that he was the bottom? I supposed anything was possible. Maybe that accounted for the twig and berries being removed.
Hazel saw Cutler at the murder scene. This was alarming. Someone was following me. I saw the dark Mer
cedes twice now. According to the court records, the Cutlers owned a Mercedes. Was Cutler following Hazel too? If so, that put her in danger. We had to be careful. Hazel was convinced that he didn’t see her. If so, that meant he was there for another reason, but why? To revisit the scene, revel in it, maybe re-live the crime? Guilt? A macho man like Cutler could have been ashamed of himself and punished his lover after the act. I pinched the bridge of my nose. It fit, but not perfectly. I was still missing something. Now seemed as good a time as any to try and dig up those missing pieces.
I went downstairs and passed by Eff Bomb, who was having another cigarette in the alley. I got a few steps by him when an idea struck me. Eff Bomb didn’t have a history of being on the straight and narrow. He has a long rap sheet. I know because he often brags about it, the way low-level street thugs do. He has to front his rep, so everybody knows he’s not a punk. Yeah, I know. It’s stupid. Still, a guy like that may come in handy. “Eff Bomb, you doing anything right now?”
“Nah man. Just smoking a dart.”
“I need a favour. Can you help me out?”
Eff Bomb looked at me with wide eyes. I never asked him for a favour. Hell, I never really talked to him. “What do you need”
“Just so you know, we might break a few laws.”
Eff Bomb flashed a cocky half-grin, like a yellowing, waning moon. “I’m okay with that.”
“Good. You got a Slim Jim?”
A few minutes later we were driving towards the army base. Eff Bomb was in the passenger seat. He ran his hand across the dashboard. “This is a cool ride, Heck. What is it, some sort of DIY Jeep?”
I chuckled. “It’s a Thing.”
“It sure is.”
I pulled into the strip mall across the street from the base. We were in a parking spot facing the building but could see the gatehouse. “We’re watching for an Escalade. Black. “
“Cool. What are we doing? We gonna jack it?”
I shot him an incredulous look. “No. We’re not stealing anything. We’re just going to follow it. “
Eff Bomb put his hands up defensively. “All right, Heck. Just asking. You’re the one who said we were doing crime.”
“I said might be doing crimes.” I corrected him. “And we’re not doing the sort that hurts anyone or takes from anyone?”
“What other kind is there?” He wondered aloud.
Shortly after five, I spotted Cutler’s Escalade and watched as it turned onto Sheppard Avenue. I missed the light and had to wait until it turned green to make a left. By then, he had already turned south on the Allen Expressway. “Fuck, Heck. We’re gonna fucking lose him.”
“I know,” I said. I followed down the Allen but stopped behind a sea of red taillights. “Damn it!” I pounded the steering wheel.
“Wait. There he is,” Eff Bomb said. “He’s getting off at Lawrence.” I managed to stay far enough behind him that we could still see him, but not so far that we might lose him. If he’d looked back more frequently, he would have realized that he was being tailed. Thankfully, most people never had a reason to check. I knew where he was headed. According to the divorce papers, James Cutler was renting an apartment on the Esplanade. If we lost him, we could just go to his address and wait him out. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to see his routine. I wanted to see if he stopped anywhere, met anyone. He didn't. We followed him to his building. I watched as his outstretched arm keyed in his passcode and the heavy doors to the underground parking rolled up.
“What now?” Eff Bomb asked.
“Now we wait.”
“Fuck,” he said. I shared the sentiment.
I killed the engine. The city had a three-minute idling bylaw, and I didn’t want to run the risk of a ticket. I also didn’t want to burn gas unnecessarily. This investigation had already cost me a lot more money than I expected, and I knew it wasn’t going to be recouped. We sat in front of his building for almost three hours. The sun had begun to set, and a veil of darkness slowly descended on the city. Eff Bomb’s cellphone pinged. He checked the screen and sighed. “Fuck.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah. She’s fucking pissed. Says she wants me to get a regular job. Start helping her out with rent. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Get a job flipping burgers at Mc-fucking-Donald’s?
I hesitated before answering. I really didn’t want to get involved with his life. Not my circus. Not my monkeys. Still, he was a young guy and he seemed to need some guidance from an older man. I was lucky. I had my dad. Not everyone had that in their life. I wasn’t interested in being a surrogate or mentor, but a little advice from someone who has been around the block couldn’t hurt. “Yeah. You could do that. You could clean toilets. You could cut grass. You could step up and be a man.”
Eff Bomb was taken aback. I supposed he must have been asking a rhetorical question. “Fuck, Heck.”
“Listen, Eff Bomb, you don’t get to come into this girl’s life, change it completely, and then disappear. You have to step up. I’m not saying marry her. You don’t strike me as the marrying kind, but you owe it to her to contribute. If you can’t do that, cut her loose. Either way, you still have to look after your kid-”
“I just bought the kid a new pair of fucking kicks,” Eff Bomb interrupted.
“Kids need a lot more than shoes. I hate to break it to you, but they also need a place to live. You ought to be helping her out every month, unless you want them to live on the streets.”
“Of course, I don’t. but she won’t get off my back,” he moaned. “It always something. She’s pissed that he’s swearing. I don’t fucking know where he gets that.”
“Yeah it’s a real mystery.” I said. Eff Bomb wasn’t sophisticated enough to pick up on the sarcasm.
“I can’t get a job. The street’s all I fucking know.”
“Figure it out,” I told him. We sat in silence after that. Eff Bomb was petulant, and I wondered if I overstepped my bounds.
“It’s not that easy. I never knew anything else. I don’t have my fucking shit together like you.” This made me smile. I wouldn’t say I had my shit together. I was in my late 30s, unmarried, childless. I was a bouncer at a strip club, and prone to long bouts of depression. I was aware that I was frittering away whatever potential I had.
I was a good investigator, a damn good one, but I let my injury and my failure sidetrack me. I was probably the last person to give anyone life advice. I wasn’t qualified to give advice, especially parenting advice, but this was the second time in recent weeks where I had to give a man a little nudge.
I thought about Eddie. He seemed to take our conversation to heart. He left Hazel and Jaimie, but he called Jaimie often. I wondered if he sent Hazel any money. It didn’t seem likely. Thinking about Hazel brought with it a pang of melancholy. We shared that kiss when we were on the road. It electrified me. It also terrified me. I hadn’t had a serious relationship in a long time. I wanted to try with Hazel, but I was afraid to take the plunge. If there was one thing I knew, it was that relationships rarely ended on the first attempt. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t done with Eddie. She was damaged. She tried to kill herself. With all my problems, I never wanted to die. Then there was Eddie’s warning.
She killed someone.
“There’s a Caddy. Is that the one?”” Eff Bomb said, interrupting my reverie.
“That’s him.” We waited until Cutler was a block ahead before pulling away from the curb.
“He turned right,” Eff Bomb said. I kept tailing him, making sure that I stayed safely behind. The Caddy was driving erratically, swerving from one lane to the other.
“I think he’s drunk.”
This was a problem. I couldn’t follow him if he was drunk. What if he killed someone? How could I live with that? I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, ready to call 911. Before I could, Cutler turned into a plaza, parking diagonally into a parking spot in front of a liquor store, the front and back ends carelessly outside of t
he lines like a toddler’s haphazard colouring. Cutler got out and walked towards the door. He didn’t seem unsteady.
“What now?” Eff Bomb asked.
“Follow him inside. Don’t get close. See what he’s up to.” Cutler would recognise me, but he didn’t have any idea who Eff Bomb was.
“I think its obvious. He’s reloading.”
“Maybe. Maybe he’s meeting someone.”
“I’ll check.” Eff Bomb followed Cutler inside. I couldn’t see what was happening through the windows. After a few minutes, Cutler emerged. He was carrying a brown paper bag. Eff Bomb followed behind. He was carrying a bag too. Cutler backed out and pulled away. I followed.
“What did he do?” I asked once we were on the move.
“Nothing crazy. He bought a bottle of vodka, paid for it, and left.”
“Did he talk to anyone?”
“Just the cashier. I had to buy a bottle too, so I didn’t look suspicious. Are you going to cover it? You know, like my expenses?”
I shot him a hard glare and he didn’t flinch. Sighing heavily, I agreed. The Caddy headed north towards Bloor Street. His wife’s home was in that neighbourhood. Sure enough, a few turns later, I saw the Caddy parked in Ellie Cutler’s driveway.
We parked several houses away against the curb. “I’m going to check the Caddy. Stay with the car,” I said in a low whisper.
Eff Bomb’s shoulders dropped, and his lips pressed together tightly. He wanted to be a part of the caper. “Heck-”
“You be the lookout. Let me know if he’s coming back.” Placated, Eff Bomb smiled and climbed out of the car. I reached into the backseat and grabbed his duffel bag. We slowly made our way towards Ellie Cutler's home, being careful to keep to the shadows while still trying to be inconspicuous. it was a difficult line to balance on. The long driveway doglegged to the left of the front door and Cutler's SUV was obscured by a hydrangea bush. I pointed to it and told Eff Bomb to take cover. From that vantage point, he had a clear view of the front door.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Just keep an eye out and let me know if you see him coming.”