Green backed away, his breath catching, and turned to continue his systematic search of the downstairs. Everywhere he saw evidence of a neat, frugal lifestyle. Scuffed, mended furniture, homemade bookcases brimming with secondhand paperbacks, and child-like drawings on the walls. When he could no longer reasonably put it off, he took a deep breath and headed up the stairs, careful to avoid the blood on the walls and stair treads.
At the top of the stairs, the bedroom doors were ajar, spilling light into the hall. Lamps were smashed, tables overturned, and bedding strewn about. Everything was bathed in blood. He almost tripped over a cast-iron pan in the middle of the floor. Through the half open front bedroom door, he caught sight of the chainsaw, glistening red. He nudged the door back with his toe. Stepped in. And stared at the carnage.
He felt a door swing shut in his mind. Felt its refusal to grasp, to absorb, to comprehend. Aware only of his crumbling legs, the heat and salt of tears upon his cheeks. He didn’t speak, didn’t move.
Then, very faintly above the sound of his own ragged breath, he heard a sob. He turned. A closet door stood half open in the corner. Instinct flooded him and he dropped to a crouch behind the blood-soaked bed and unsnapped his holster.
“Police. Come out with your hands out.”
Nothing.
He edged around the bed and shoved open the closet door.
Nothing.
Then from the interior of the closet, from behind the snowsuits, the hockey gear and the boxes of Lego, a pale face emerged. Eyes huge with shock, greying hair plastered with blood, lips slack with disbelief.
“I killed him,” she whispered. “I killed him.”
Green bolted awake, as he always did, his sheets soaked with sweat. His heart hammered against his ribs as he panted to catch his breath. He drank in the reassuring shadows of his darkened bedroom; the maple tree against the window, the dresser in the corner, the glint of the mirror on the closet door. And his wife’s black curls tumbling over the pillow next to him. She opened her eyes, luminous in the dark, and reached for his arm.
“The nightmare?”
He nodded, and she tightened her grip. “You haven’t had that in a long time.”
“I guess it’s this case and worrying about Twiggy.”
She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Do you want some tea?”
He hesitated. When the nightmares had come every night and the visions of body parts plagued his waking hours, Sharon had been there to comfort him. To listen endlessly to his rants about mental health and legal loopholes, and to try to explain—not excuse—what Sam had done. She had known Sam during his two hospitalizations the previous winter, supported his wife’s futile efforts to have him committed. She had watched him struggle in vain to get well, she had even met the two holy terrors who were his sons. They had come to the ward for visits, ricocheting off the walls, racing the length of the corridors, bouncing off the sofas in the sunroom and spinning the chairs in the nursing station like their own personal merry-go-rounds.
“The stress alone of keeping up with them would tax a healthy parent,” she’d said. “And you factor in the loss of his job at the university due to his illness, the financial pressures of the kids’ private school, the efforts to hang onto the family house . . . I think he couldn’t see any other way out. He couldn’t cope any more, but he couldn’t leave his wife with the burden of managing them by herself.”
“And he thought killing them would be easier on her?”
She’d shaken her head, looking dissatisfied. “I can only guess, but I think in his delusional state, he thought they’d be better off dead. He felt he had to put them out of their misery.”
That was the theory proposed by the trio of forensic psychiatrists when the case finally wended its way through the legal circus. Homicide-suicide was the verdict of the coroner’s inquest. Sam Calderone, in the grip of a psychotic delusion, had hacked his twin sons to pieces with a chainsaw, and while his wife hid for her life in the closet, he went downstairs and stabbed himself in the throat.
Green had his own private theory about the mad workings of Sam Calderone’s mind. He had been cutting deadwood, hoping perhaps that what was left of his sons’ bodies and minds would grow healthy and strong. He had not intended to die that night, he had planned to be around to witness their cure.
With the knife too smeared with blood to yield usable prints, Green had never told anyone what Jean Calderone had said to him in the closet that night. She had faced a homicidal lunatic who had just sawn their two sons to pieces. Whatever she had done to him, whether in self-protection or in retribution, she had already paid dearly enough.
Now he snuggled down into Sharon’s arms and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Just hold me awhile,” he whispered.
He was grateful that she didn’t utter pointless reassurances about Twiggy’s disappearance, but recognized the danger was real, and the longer Twiggy was missing, the less hopeful the outlook. He lay awake a long time, feeling the rise and fall of her breasts against his back, thinking about Twiggy. Tomorrow he would put out an APB on her and get all the patrols looking for her. They would visit the hangouts, talk to the homeless, and double-check the community health centres.
And while the patrols did that, he would solve this damn case and bring this deadly killer down before he got anyone else.
He slept finally, dreamlessly, until the first rays of dawn crept onto his bed.
August 12. Gracac, Sector South, Croatia.
This is the first time I feel like I’m writing to this diary. Not to Kit, who I haven’t had a letter from in two weeks. These thoughts are not for Kit, they’re for me, because I’ve put away a whole bottle of French wine and I still feel like shit. We lost one of our own today. Not by sniper fire or a landmine, which we always thought would happen, but by one of our own stupid trucks rolling on him. What the fuck are we doing over here anyway? The UN can’t get their act together and the locals don’t want us, they just want us to get out of the way so they can kill each other.
Today at parade there were all the usual speeches about him and about the great sacrifice he made and how proud we should be of the important job we were doing. The CO said we can’t let this get us down, we’re soldiers and we have a job to do.
Like what?
TWENTY
Green was up before seven o’clock the next morning in order to get the APB on Twiggy out in the morning parade. By the time he emerged from his study, both Modo and Tony were clamouring for their breakfast and Sharon was standing in the hallway, fixing him with knowing eyes.
“It’s Sunday, Mike.”
He kissed the top of her tousled head. “Go back to bed. I’ll feed them.”
She grunted, wrapped her pink robe around her and headed back into the bedroom. “A coffee in bed might be nice,” she tossed over her shoulder.
He had fed the dog and was toasting a bagel for Tony when the phone rang. It was Sullivan, sounding as if he’d been awake for hours.
“I saw the APB on Twiggy, so I knew you were up.”
Green chuckled. “I can tell you really hate being back in Major Crimes. You have to drag yourself in to work every morning.”
“You’re one to talk. Anyway, I was thinking I’d get an early start on Richard Hamm this morning.”
The toaster popped up, and Tony crowed with glee. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy. Get me my bagel!”
Green fished it out of the toaster and set it on a plate.
“Daddy, put cheese on it!”
Green wedged the phone against his shoulder so he could spread the cream cheese. “At this hour, Brian? Nothing like a surprise attack at dawn to catch the guy with his defences down.”
“I doubt that. Hamm is probably the jog-at-oh-four-hundred type. I thought you’d like to know that the situation with him just got a whole lot more interesting.”
“I’m listening.”
“When I turned on the email this morning, there was a very excited report from
your Sergeant McGrath in Halifax. You’ve got her so fired up on the case, she’s using exclamation points after every second word.”
Green paused, the knife suspended in mid-air. “She got an ID on Daniel Oliver’s killer?”
“No, she hasn’t got a match on that guy yet. But she got an ID on the man the killer was talking to just before the assault. The man who gave the fake name? It was Richard Hamm.”
Green sucked in his breath. “Hamm was the drinking buddy?”
“Without a doubt. She recognized him herself, then got independent corroboration from the bartender. I thought you should know, in case you had any last minute instructions before Leblanc and I go after the guy.”
Green glanced at Tony, who was perched on his bumper seat, watching the bagel preparations eagerly. Tony had Sharon’s dark curls and huge chocolate eyes, but his intensity and single-mindedness were all Green’s. Green hesitated, loathe to disappoint him and to miss this lazy Sunday morning family time, but his own single-mindedness gave him little choice. If he stayed home, he would chafe with impatience all morning and drive the whole family crazy anyway.
“Give me an hour. I’ll get some things out of the way here and be right with you,” he said. He gave Tony his bagel and brewed up the coffee. Then, remembering the warmth of Sharon’s arms around him the night before, he slipped a bagel into the toaster for her and headed out into the backyard. A pale morning sun warmed the small flower garden tucked into the corner against the brick wall, and already Sharon’s massive fall bulb planting spree was paying dividends. Vivid yellow daffodils crowded the space. He pinched off one, hoping it would cheer her up after the long, ice-bound winter. Hoping too that it would make amends.
A smile lit her face when he walked into the room bearing the breakfast tray, but it faded slightly at the sight of the flower on the tray. She had heard the phone ring, and she was not fooled. He left her snuggling her son next to her as she picked up her coffee for her first sip. With her free hand, she waved him away.
“Go. The sun’s shining, and we’re all here today. Your loss, Green.”
Steeped in guilt, he slunk out of the house. On the drive downtown, he forced his mind to refocus on McGrath’s latest discovery about Hamm. It threw his theory about Oliver’s killer and the war crimes cover-up out of whack. Hamm had fit the scenario to a T. He had been one of the few men in MacDonald’s unit with the knowledge and capability to suppress a war crime. He had the strength and military training to kill Oliver with his bare hands, and he was also one of the few people interviewed by Peters before she was attacked.
This latest discovery did not exonerate him completely from the actual murders that had been committed; indeed ten years ago, he had lied to the police about his identity and very likely about his relationship to Oliver’s killer. But he had not been the one to throw the punch. Which meant they had someone else to find.
Sullivan’s prediction proved to be uncannily close to the mark, except that Hamm had not only put in an hour-long pre-dawn jog, but he had swum a few dozen laps at the hotel pool afterwards. He was now sitting in the hotel restaurant, his wet hair glistening and his cheeks ruddy with exertion, enjoying the full spread of the breakfast buffet. Our tax dollars at work, thought Green as he eyed the sausage, omelette, waffles, grilled tomatoes and fresh fruit that overflowed the man’s plate. Hamm didn’t look surprised to see them, only slightly nonplussed at having his routine disrupted.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said cheerfully, signalling the waiter to bring them all coffee. “I’ve been expecting a visit from some more senior men. My sincere sympathies about your detective. Terrible to think such a thing could happen in Petawawa, but I guess rapists know no bounds. It’s one of the things I worry about with the women under my command. It’s an added vulnerability that men don’t have, and in some parts of the world, it makes them fair game. What better way to strike at the enemy.”
Green inclined his head to accept the sympathies, then waited for the performance to end. Once the man had established his importance in the pecking order, he shook his head as if to chide himself.
“But I won’t keep you longer than necessary, because I know you’ve got your hands full. What can I do for you?”
“Tell us about your relationship with Ian MacDonald.”
Hamm frowned as if searching his memory. “Ah. Still barking up that tree, I see.”
Green waited.
“Ian MacDonald was a corporal in my platoon overseas in Croatia, as I’m sure you already know. I never saw him before, nor since.”
“He killed himself in 1995.”
Hamm cut his sausage into meticulous quarters. “I did know that. At least, I assumed it was intentional. He knew how to handle that rifle.”
“Why do you think he did it?”
Hamm chewed thoughtfully. “Some soldiers have trouble with what they see overseas, and it colours their trust in people. Yugoslavia was a brutal and dangerous place.”
“You did not seem very supportive of his medal for bravery. Why was that?”
“What the devil gave you that idea?”
“Mrs. MacDonald’s impressions, and the sympathy card you sent her.”
“It seems to me,” said Hamm, laying down his fork impatiently, “that this is all ancient history, the details of which have no relevance to your current investigation. MacDonald was a nice boy, but he was not a soldier. He entered a firefight to save local civilians, all of whom were trying to kill each other, and in the process risked his own life and the rest of his section. That is the reason I was less than supportive. Historically, medals have been awarded to honour acts of bravery or heroism on the battlefront. This medal was all about optics, inspector. The army had just been dragged through the mud over the Somalia affair, so let’s pin a medal on the brave boy who risked his own life to save the locals.”
Green had seen enough political games in his twenty-five year career to know the colonel’s assessment was probably dead on. “Still,” he said, “that doesn’t sound like a soldier so disillusioned and tormented that he’d later take his own life. What exactly happened to change him?”
“I have no idea. I don’t make it a policy to psychoanalyze my men. I need to know that they have the strength, training and equipment to do the job I ask. Beyond that . . .” He shrugged. “Sometimes the stress reaction is delayed, when they have some downtime to think about it. That’s why I always kept them busy.”
Green paused to take a casual sip of coffee. Tried to make his voice neutral. “Daniel Oliver was a good friend of Ian MacDonald.”
A contingent of businessmen had just invaded the buffet table, chattering with an animation Green had not thought possible at this hour. So great was Hamm’s focus that he didn’t seem to notice. He was watching Green carefully, but didn’t reply.
“He seemed to think MacDonald’s superior officer was to blame,” Green added.
“Then you know his thoughts better than I.”
“But you were there at the Lighthouse Tavern the night he accused his killer.”
Hamm frowned. “The night Daniel Oliver died? In Halifax? I most certainly wasn’t.”
Green set his cup down. “Before you say anything to dig yourself in deeper, Colonel, I should tell you that I have two independent witnesses who’ve identified you as the man talking to Oliver’s killer just before the altercation took place. So denial is not a wise choice.”
In the silence, the laughter of the businessmen and the clatter of dishes filled the room. Sullivan had said nothing, but now he looked up from his notebook with interest. A faint flush crept up Hamm’s neck, but his expression was unconcerned. “It may not be a wise choice, but it’s the truth. How can anyone possibly have identified me if I wasn’t there?”
“Exactly.”
“Who are these witnesses anyway? Soldiers so drunk they could barely prop up their chins? Whores with eyes for every part of a man’s body but his face? Come on, Inspector, you can’t be serious.”<
br />
Green leaned forward across the table. “At the time, you gave a false ID to the investigating officers. Luckily, they have excellent memories for faces. The question is, why did you do that? Just to save yourself the embarrassment of being caught up in a sleazy barroom brawl? Or to protect the man you were talking to.”
Hamm stared at him, his blue eyes icy. His lips pursed in a taut line. “This is absurd. I don’t have to dignify this with a response. First you accuse me of being in a bar brawl, then of providing false ID to the authorities. I’ve been in every filthy, rotten corner of the world, Inspector. I’d hardly lie about the Lighthouse Tavern.”
“You would if you knew the killer, and your identity could point us to him.”
Hamm thrust his chair back. “We’re done here, gentlemen. Obviously nothing I say will change your minds. You’d rather take the word of a couple of police officers who pick my picture out of God knows what, ten years after the fact. There were at least a dozen drunken soldiers in the bar that night—”
“How do you know?”
Hamm’s eyes snapped wide. “I guessed, you fool. You said it was a brawl—”
Green smiled and stood up to go. “Nice try, Colonel Hamm. We’ll be in touch.”
“I want a crack at him!” Kate McGrath announced the moment Green phoned to fill her in. He and Sullivan had just arrived at the station. and Sullivan was sifting through reports on the hunt for Twiggy.
“I think it’s premature, Kate,” Green replied. “The man had the ego of a colossus. He’s not going to crack without a good deal more strong-arming, along with some evidence he can’t dispute.”
“With all due respect, Daniel Oliver is not your case. I’ve already cleared it with Norrich. and I’m booked on the two thirty flight. I’ll be there by five.” She paused and her voice softened. “So you’ve got the day to get your additional evidence.”
He hesitated. She was right; he had no right to stop her. And perhaps, just perhaps, her knowledge of the players in the old murder case would be useful in helping him put the pieces together. “Okay, I’ll pick you up,” he said, and he hung up. The smile was still lingering on his face when Sullivan walked into his office and gave him a knowing look.
Honour Among Men Page 19