Honour Among Men

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Sorry about that, Bob,” Green said, rescuing the cup and setting it down. Bob Gibbs had many talents, but a confident disposition was not one of them. Still, in the current state of CID, you had to take the good with the bad. He glanced at the screen on Gibbs’s laptop. “How’s it going?”

  Gibbs found his voice. “It’s still early, sir. How . . . how did you know . . . ?”

  “I was just driving by. Any luck with missing persons?”

  “It’s no one local, at least recently. But I’ve asked MisPers to check Quebec and Ontario.”

  “There may be a military connection.”

  Gibbs blinked in surprise, and a faint flush crept up his neck. “Are you . . . should I . . . ?”

  “It’s your case, Bob. I’m heading to the office to meet with Superintendent Devine. But because of the military line of inquiry, I’d like to be kept in the loop.”

  A shout from down by the water interrupted any reply Gibbs might have attempted. Green peered out of the car window and saw an officer gesturing towards the water at the base of the pumphouse wall. Green and Gibbs got out of the car for a better look and saw Lou Paquette striding over towards the spot, cameras bouncing, yelling at them not to touch anything. Without a moment’s hesitation, Gibbs and Green hurried back down the slope, reaching the scene only seconds after the Ident officer. The young uniformed officer who’d made the discovery was on his knees, leaning out over the water, oblivious to the damp seeping into his pants. A strange pink mottled object lay in about four feet of murky water.

  “I think it’s a purse, sir,” he said. “Looks like it got stuck on the lip of the culvert.”

  Paquette was already chasing everyone away so that he could photograph it. Gibbs and Green waited patiently with the others until he had completed the photos and had fished the purse out into a large plastic pan. Water oozed from it as it gradually deflated. It was large enough to carry a small tank, Green thought, but it was hideous. Something even his wife Sharon, with her practical streak and her sense of humour, would have left on the rack. Shiny black vinyl with big, floppy, pink daisies stuck all over it.

  Paquette pried open the clasp, methodically removed the contents and laid them beside it in the pan. A hat and scarf, two lipsticks, a glasses case, a half-eaten pack of Dentine, half a dozen cheap pens, black gloves, an empty Tupperware container, a hair brush, bits of sodden paper, and three large rocks.

  Paquette hefted these, looking perplexed.

  “Could they have gotten into the purse when it bumped along the bottom?” the young uniform asked.

  Another officer elbowed closer. “The clasp was shut.”

  Green stepped forward and pulled on a glove before picking up one of the stones. It was heavy. Not something a woman would be eager to lug around in her purse. It was grey and irregularly shaped, certainly not chosen for its beauty. He studied the rocky shoreline thoughtfully. Similar grey stones of all sizes poked through the mud.

  “The killer put them in there, hoping to make the purse sink,” he said.

  Paquette’s shrug was non-committal. Green knew the Ident officer was not fond of theories, only of evidence he could lay his hands on. Evidence won cases in court.

  The second officer peered over Paquette’s shoulder at the pan. “Wallet’s missing. Looks like there’s no ID whatsoever. Who’s to say it’s even the Jane Doe’s?”

  Paquette had begun poking in side pockets, removing more soggy bits of paper. At this point, he glanced up. “It’s not been in the water very long. The fabric’s not degraded, the vinyl’s still shiny and the print on these papers is still pretty clear.”

  Green looked at the sixty odd feet between the purse and the body. “It’s hers. The killer took all the ID out, weighted it with rocks, and tossed it into the water, probably hoping the current would carry it farther away. Which was a risk, because he had to know we might find it. He must have thought it was a greater risk to carry it with him.”

  The second officer snorted. “Yeah. Like what guys’s gonna walk down the street carrying that thing?”

  Green turned to give the officer a closer look. Constable Jeffrey Weiss, his tag said. He was dressed in a casual sports jacket with his tie trailing loose and his blond hair curling over his collar. He had high, Slavic cheekbones, and beneath the peak of his jauntily set baseball cap, his blue eyes stared back, almost in challenge. Green had seen that look before. Cocksure and cynical, the mark of a lousy cop. Yet there was an intelligence in the man’s gaze that gave Green pause. An instinct for the job, which could not be taught.

  Green turned back to the purse. “Lou, can you dry out the pieces of paper? Maybe one of them will give us some answers.”

  Paquette gave him a long, exasperated stare. “Gee, I thought I’d just chuck them. I suppose you want these answers like yesterday? When I’ve got a whole scene to process.”

  Green chuckled. “Bob here is in charge of the case. I’m sure you’ll get it to him as soon as you can. After all, it’d be nice to know who she is. It helps the investigation no end.”

  FOUR

  The tragedy of Jane Doe’s death yielded one dubious bonus. When Green finally made his appearance in Barbara Devine’s office, she was so distracted by this new crisis on her turf that she forgot most of the tedious items on her agenda.

  “Three murders in less than a week, Mike! Last year there were eight in the whole year. Ottawa is the laughingstock of the criminal world. While our politicians squabble about funding tulip festivals and light rail projects, the drug lords and the pimps are moving in and setting up shop. What are your drug squads doing? And Vice? Selling tickets to the show?”

  She had shut the door to her third-floor office and closed the blinds on her fabulous view of the turreted museum across the square—sure signs that their meeting was not for the public eye. Or ear. She perched on the edge of her chair, the wings of her black lacquered hair skewering the air, and as she built up steam, her face grew almost as crimson as her nails.

  Green leaned back in his chair with deliberate calm. “It’s too early to classify this as a homicide, Barbara. MacPhail’s doing the autopsy tomorrow. But in any case, there’s nothing to suggest drugs or prostitution.”

  “Then you find it, or wrap this case up before the six o’clock news. If it’s her lunatic husband, nail him before the women’s groups have a field day claiming the streets are not safe. If it’s drugs or vice, I want ammunition so I can go to the Chief for funds. Who’ve you got leading the investigation?”

  “Detective Gibbs.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “Gibbs is afraid of his own shadow.”

  Green checked his own flare of anger. “The senior guys are all on the Byward Pub murders.” At your insistence, remember, he thought, but kept it to himself. He wanted to escape with as little meddling from her as possible. “Gibbs has nearly three years in Major Crimes, and he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Then I want you checking his every move, as I will yours.”

  It took him half an hour to talk her down sufficiently that she remembered the rest of her agenda, so it was well past noon when Green emerged from her office. He had a splitting headache and a roiling stomach that rebelled at the least thought of food. He paused for an ill-advised cup of coffee before heading to his office.

  He had barely settled down to pry the lid off his coffee when Paquette marched into his office with a plastic evidence bag in his hand. His thick brows were set in their customary frown, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of excitement as he laid the bag down on Green’s desk.

  “Gibbs figured you’d want to see this.”

  Inside the bag was a small ticket stub from VIA Rail. Even though it was faded and creased, Green could clearly see that it had been purchased in Halifax two weeks earlier. Halifax was a good fifteen hundred kilometre, twenty-four hour train ride from Ottawa, not a trip one would make on a whim.

  “I found it in one of the small zippered pockets,” Paquette said. “Our guy
obviously didn’t notice the pocket when he cleaned out the purse.”

  It was probably dark, Green thought, and when you’ve just murdered someone, you’re not usually at your sharpest. Thank God for stupid bad guys. He felt his headache fade, and he managed a genuine smile. “Thanks, Lou. I appreciate the quick work.”

  Lou nodded grudgingly. “Gibbs said to tell you he’s already on the phone to Halifax Missing Persons.”

  “Excellent. Any other useful papers turn up in the purse?”

  “Shreds of Kleenex, gum wrappers. The woman chewed a lot of gum, maybe trying to quit smoking. Receipts from Pharmaprix and Loeb grocery store, both here in the Vanier area in the last week, but unfortunately all paid with cash.” He turned to head out the door, and paused. “Oh, and a pamphlet from the new Canadian War Museum.”

  Green’s interest quickened. The victim’s jacket had been military. One military connection might have been random, but two connections, however remote, formed a lead. He was just about to call Gibbs when the man himself loped into his office, almost colliding with Paquette on his way out. Gibbs had his notebook open to a page covered in tight, meticulous writing, and he looked so focussed he forgot to be afraid.

  “Halifax MisPers has nothing, but I sent them the DOA’s photo and description. And Lou said he’d run her prints through AFIS as soon as he gets them at the autopsy tomorrow.”

  Green nodded. Both were appropriate lines of inquiry, but they were still looking for a needle in a haystack. Besides AFIS, the national fingerprint database, the Department of National Defence had its own fingerprint file of all Canadian Forces military personnel, but it was designed to permit identification of casualties in wartime. It would be a stretch to convince DND that the unidentified Jane Doe might qualify as a victim of war.

  But it was worth a try, particularly if it could get the case solved by the six o’clock news.

  More likely, though, Green suspected that his efforts to connect with the military would take closer to a week, and require official request forms in quadruplicate. In the post 9/11 world, no one was more secretive than DND, except the spooks. So he was surprised when his call was returned before the end of the day by a Captain Karl Ulrich from Human Resources at DND headquarters. Green thought the rank fitting, a captain being at about the same level of the food chain as an inspector.

  But the speed of the response did not mean good news. “Our fingerprint files are not searchable,” the Captain intoned, as if reading from cue cards. “Not like AFIS. Even if National Defence could authorize access in this case, we would require the individual’s name and service number in order to locate the file.”

  “And if that information becomes available, what process does the Ottawa Police need to follow to get access?”

  “Well, there’s a form . . .”

  Of course there’s a form, Green muttered privately after he’d jotted down the procedure and thanked the Captain for his help. Probably the first of many, requiring signatures from the Commissioner of the RCMP, the Prime Minister and the Governor General herself. We’d better hope Gibbs has more luck with the Missing Persons unit of the Halifax police.

  February 23, 1993. Fort Ord, California.

  Dear Kit . . . Man, I’m not very good at this diary business. The padre said we should try it, to record one of the greatest experiences of our lives and maybe help us keep perspective if things get tough. But it feels dumb, so I’ve decided to write it as a letter to you, even though I can’t actually mail it. It feels good talking to you instead of just myself.

  It’s been go-go-go since we got down here to do our combat training. Section attacks, platoon attacks, fighting in built-up areas. It freaked out some of the guys because they thought our mission was just going to be keeping the peace, but we’re training on all these guns and practising live-fire simulations. It’s kind of scary because you wonder what you got yourself in for, but, boy—does it ever get the adrenaline going. I’m getting pretty good with my C-7, and even the general purpose machine gun.

  The great news is that Danny’s been made 2IC of my section because the Princess Pats regular master corporal got moved out to man one of the TOWs. These are really cool anti-tank missile systems that can take out a tank at almost 4000 metres, even in the dark. The CO says we we’re not supposed to have them, but we’re taking them anyway. The UN doesn’t really understand what’s happening on the ground, he said, and he wasn’t going to make Canadian Forces into sitting ducks. I’m glad he’ll be in charge when we go over.

  It was ten o’clock that evening before Green’s thoughts returned to the case. His wife Sharon was working the evening shift at Rideau Psychiatric Hospital, so the challenge of feeding, bathing, and putting their rambunctious, two and a half year-old son to bed had fallen solely to him. Green spent nearly half an hour snuggled up in bed with him, reading the antics of Robert Munsch and Dr. Seuss, which had Tony bouncing all over the bed, a million miles from sleep. Green tried the warm milk and lullaby routine that Sharon used, but it still took his entire repertoire of lullabies and a back rub before the little boy finally crashed into sleep from pure exhaustion. Green brushed a kiss to his tousled head and slipped off the bed.

  No sooner had Green tiptoed out of his room when the bedroom door opposite cracked open and an elfin face peered out. The pulse of rock music escaped the room.

  “Shh-h!” Green whispered urgently.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “And hello to you too.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. She was barely five feet tall and had a delicate, heart-shaped face that radiated innocence. That illusion had allowed her to get away with everything short of murder in the first sixteen years of her life, after which her mother, Green’s first wife, had thrown up her hands and shipped her across the country to live with her father. In the beginning, Green and Hannah had been complete strangers, but Hannah had been living with them for over nine months now, and at least now she occasionally spoke to him of her own free will. Even if it was only when she wanted something.

  “I picked up cheese blintzes from the Bagelshop,” he added.

  She sighed. “Figures.”

  He’d learned the hard way to ignore the bait. The reality was, she had her father’s unerring instinct for hidden truths, and it had taken her no time to notice that, in his forty-plus years, he had learned very little about the workings of a kitchen. Deli take-outs had served him well in his ten years between wives, and at the end of a long day he rarely had the desire or energy for culinary creativity.

  Feigning nonchalance, he headed downstairs. “They’re in a bag on the counter. How about heating them up while I walk the dog.”

  Modo, their massive Humane Society refugee, was sprawled the length of the living room with her head by Sharon’s chair, snoring blissfully and showing no inclination for a walk. After repeated calling, she hauled herself up and lumbered over to the door.

  Modo was Sharon’s dog, and like Tony, she only accepted Green’s clumsy care-giving when Sharon was not around. Even so, she left the house reluctantly and paused often to look anxiously back towards the house while they made their tour around the block. Green returned home feeling thoroughly inadequate. The fragrance of cheese blintzes and butter cheered him considerably. He found Hannah in the kitchen, chatting on her cellphone and brandishing a spatula over a frying pan.

  “I suppose you want salad too,” she said.

  “That would be nice.”

  “Honestly, Mike,” she muttered, and returned her attention to her cellphone.

  He walked up to her and planted a kiss on her blue, curly-topped head. Quickly, before she could duck away. A murmured thanks was as mushy as he dared.

  He set the kitchen table for two, but once Hannah had spooned the food onto two plates, she picked up hers and headed into the living room to turn on the TV. Green opened his mouth to protest, but when the sounds of yet another Simpsons rerun filled the room, he gave up in defeat. She would only have sat opposi
te him in silence anyway, oozing resentment.

  Instead he read the paper while he ate, then fed the dog and cleaned up the kitchen. Weariness began to steal into his bones. What was he coming to, when by ten in the evening he was ready to crawl into bed? He stuck his head into the living room.

  “Want some tea?”

  Hannah glanced at him, and he could see the ambivalence play across her face. Why was every single move between them like an elaborate dance, with him bumbling around to learn the steps?

  She shrugged. “As long as you don’t make it too strong, like Sharon’s.”

  Under Sharon’s exacting tutelage, Green had learned to make her version of a perfect cup of tea. He diluted it by half and carried two cups into the living room. The TV was on, but to his surprise Hannah was sitting on the floor surrounded by schoolwork. She didn’t move when he placed her cup at her side. She was actually on track to pass all her courses this semester, a feat she’d never accomplished in the years of living with her mother. He stood over her, wondering if it was safe to comment. Finally, she looked up at him and, to his amazement, flashed a mischievous smile.

  “Thanks, Mike,” she said, then picked up her cup and book, and disappeared upstairs.

  He sank onto the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and closed his eyes, too tired to figure her out. Brian Sullivan’s advice rang in his ears. “If you love the kid, that’s going to show.” Sullivan was raising three teenagers and had been giving Green a crash course in raising his own these past few months.

  God, he missed Sullivan. He could barely remember a time when the big Irish lunk hadn’t been right at his side, trading theories, sharing rants and dishing out his home-spun wisdom. Full of disillusionment and self-doubt, Sullivan had gone off to another department in search of that elusive promotion. Major Crimes was mostly newcomers now, none of whom remembered the old days on the streets. Or remembered Twiggy as anyone more than a fat old lady who stuck her cup in your face. And who was on a slow, deliberate march towards death.