After a long pause, he continues. “In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that Carl Levesque got excited when I was interviewing him. He slipped and banged his mouth a little. Just so you know.”
Madsen shakes her head, but she smiles inside. “I appreciate the courtesy. And for the record, I hope it hurt.”
“He’s a scumbag and he’s likely committing fraud of one variety or another, but I don’t think he’s making and selling meth. There’s something too lazy about him. He’s looking for the get-rich-quick deal.”
“Which brings us back to the starting point. I never got to interview Scott Cooper after Garson was murdered, and the Assistant Crown called to let us know his family has hired a lawyer from Toronto and he won’t be offering anything up.”
McKelvey leans back and taps a pen against his palm.
“You said you took a course on this meth problem down in the U.S. What sorts of ingredients besides cold medicine are required in the production?”
Madsen thinks back to the course put on by a squad of Iowa state detectives and a senior narcotics officer with the Drug Enforcement Administration. She marvelled at the slideshow of meth users, before-and-after shots depicting the apparent melting and deformation of once-attractive individuals. The festering red sores they picked at endlessly in their hallucinations of burrowing insects, the hollowed cheeks as the body shed healthy fat and vitamins quicker than any diet plan, but mostly she remembered the dead milky eyes devoid of hope, devoid even of pain. It took her by surprise, the grip of this seemingly new phenomenon, the insidious nature of its digging and carving at entire towns and villages, spreading town to town like an ancient plague.
“They can make it in industrial quantities, but mostly it’s done in one-pound batches or smaller. Making the stuff is about the most dangerous occupation going. You need anhydrous ammonia, pseudoephedrine from the cold pills, lithium strips torn from a battery, a little bit of lantern fluid, and presto, you’ve got devil’s dust.”
“All of that is readily available and pretty much untraceable. What about the A-whatever ammonia?”
“Anhydrous ammonia. Farmers use it as fertilizer. You’d get it at the Co-op if there were any around here.”
“There’s a Co-op just north and a little ways out of town.”
Madsen is already packing her case and pulling on her coat.
“I wonder how Nolan is making out with the Chief,” McKelvey says.
As though on cue, the phone rings. The ancient sound of the clanging rotary startles Madsen and she fumbles with the receiver. She feels like a turtle in her parka and she strains to hear the caller. She hangs up and shakes her head.
“That was Nolan. Gallagher has bolted, he says. Clothes cleared out, vehicle gone.”
“Shit. Half the highways are closed. He must be crazy or desperate.”
“You put out a bulletin on Gallagher’s truck and I’ll head over to the Co-op, see if they stayed open in this weather.”
McKelvey gives her a look and she knows that he wants her to ask him to come, probably even to drive in this weather. Because she’s a girl.
“Why don’t you and Nolan go over to the Station Hotel and rattle Mr. Celluci a little more,” she offers.
McKelvey nods, but he looks like a little boy who has been spurned by an older brother. She has to laugh at these men, these adult-sized boys, and their ego and pride. It would be charming perhaps if it weren’t so pathetic.
Twenty-Nine
Nolan swings by the station and picks up McKelvey. This is the life of sharing two cruisers among three cops. It reminds McKelvey of when Gavin first started to drive. How he hated to ask for the keys to the car because he knew his dad would run twenty questions on him — Where? How long? With whom? Do I know that kid?
It’s snowing again, the downfall growing heavier. Nolan drives with both hands on the wheel, the wipers working steadily.
“You know Gallagher better than anyone,” McKelvey says. “Are you worried?”
Nolan stares at the snow coming in at the windshield almost head on.
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Everything I thought I knew has gone upside-down. The whole world. Gallagher is … he’s been like a second father to me, Charlie. He hired me when I left the armed forces and I didn’t know what to do with the rest of my life, sent me down to police college. To think he’s even remotely involved in killing Wade Garson, let alone bringing meth into this town, well …”
McKelvey understands what it is like to want so badly for someone you know or trust to not be involved in something as dark as this. He lost his way in life and on the job chasing down a rumour that Pierre Duguay was responsible for the killing of his boy. As the evidence began to mount and the connections became clear, his mind couldn’t comprehend that a fellow cop, a narcotics officer on the take, could be responsible. The thin blue line unravelled that day and nearly choked McKelvey to death.
There is a notion that McKelvey has been playing with, this idea he wants Nolan to consider, so he says to him, “Given where Saint B is right now in terms of life support, do you think whoever is responsible might have introduced meth with a strategic intent?”
“You mean on purpose?”
“As a last straw. I don’t know, I’m just throwing it out there. Like maybe Celluci and Gallagher started off with an idea that got out of hand. They never wanted anybody to get hurt. Just show the town how bad things are, and then maybe a stinky landfill with Detroit diapers doesn’t look so bad.”
“This is like a dream,” Nolan says, “a nightmare. I don’t know how to think like that, Charlie. To look at these people I know and hold them in suspicion. Maybe it’s easy for you, from your days working in the city. I’m not cut out for this. I want to help people, not harass them.”
“You’re a good cop,” McKelvey says. “A good cop stays open to the possibilities while maintaining some faith in the human race. Things got a little more black and white for me near the end of my job. I told you when you first asked me to help, Ed. I’m not the best example.”
“I want my father to see me do something, be something,” Nolan continues. “You know, make a difference somehow. He was always worried about where I would end up.”
“I’m sure he’s proud. From what I hear around town, people think a lot of you, Ed. It’s early to be talking this way, but I’d say you’re a natural for Chief.”
Nolan shakes his head as though he can’t go there, not this early, not with Chief Gallagher missing. McKelvey turns to the side window and watches the town. He is growing accustomed to the setting once again, how quickly the shock dissipates. The disorientation of those first few days, to step from the swirling vortex of Toronto to this, a child’s train set village set in a fishbowl. But this place is no longer his home, and he misses the city. The stink of the air blowing at his face from subway grates, the taxis jumbled in a gaggle at Union Station, the always-third-place Blue Jays, the hot dog vendors every seven feet, the boats in the harbour.
“Mind stopping by my place, I need to make a quick call,” McKelvey says.
“Use my cell if you want,” Nolan offers. “I thought you had one, too.”
McKelvey has not been able to find his cellphone since before he visited Carl Levesque. He pictures the red light flashing on the phone in some anonymous dark place.
“I’d rather use the land line. Old comforts.”
While he can’t read that far, McKelvey knows what the piece of white paper tacked to his front door says even as they pull into the driveway. He gets out of the cruiser and mounts the steps and rips the paper from the door, reading just enough of the typed message to understand that Levesque has delivered a directive based on his rights as the landlord of the dwelling. McKelvey tosses the balled paper in the sink and leans on the kitchen counter with the phone between his ear and shoulder. He listens to the soft refrains of cello and piano working in concert to ease any anxiety a caller such as himself might have. But the
music has the opposite effect. His jaw clenches until his molars ache.
“Thank you for holding, may I help you?” a young woman’s voice chimes.
“Dr. Shannon. I’ve been holding for Dr. Shannon.”
“Ummmm … sure. Let me just see here. Hold, please.”
“No, wai —”
But the line fills once again with the piped-in muzak, flutes now competing with timpani. McKelvey hangs up the receiver and swears. How ironic that he waits weeks to return a call to this doctor, and now, when he finally has the drive to speak with the man, when he finally has the courage or the clear head or whatever it is that is pushing him forward, he gets a cello and piano duet.
“Shit show,” he mutters.
He stares at the telephone hanging on the wall. If he can’t make the connection with Dr. Shannon, perhaps it’s time he tried to close another loop. He picks up the receiver and dials zero. The operator responds on the third ring.
“Operator. How can I help you?”
“Directory assistance.”
“Go ahead please. For what name?”
McKelvey pictures the old codgers standing in the lobby of the Station Hotel that first morning, his welcome wagon. The one old-timer who spoke the most about McKelvey’s father. The strike. The violence.
“I’d like a listing for a George Fergus in Ste. Bernadette, please.”
The Station Hotel tavern is empty, save for the bartender using the downtime to sit with a coffee and sort through a pile of bills, and Tony Celluci throwing darts at the board. Nolan and McKelvey enter the room and Celluci turns to look at them, arm poised ready to release, and he nods at them and then looks back to deliver the dart. It’s not a bull’s eye, but its close. He regards his placement and shrugs.
“Boys,” he says on his way over to meet them. “I assume I’m the reason for your visit during the middle of this snow day.”
“We’ve got a few things to double-check,” Nolan says. “Let’s head up to your room, Tony.”
“I wish you had called first. The place is a bit of a mess.”
But of course the room is not a mess; it is as neat and tidy as Celluci himself, who is dressed in the midst of a storm in the middle of nowhere in black pants and what looks to be an expensive purple dress shirt that is likely tailored to fit his athletic frame. He sits on the edge of his bed and clasps his hands. Nolan and McKelvey both scan the room.
“Your friend the Chief has flown the coop,” McKelvey says. “Any idea where he might be headed, or why he’d up and leave in the middle of all this excitement?”
Nolan moves to the dresser and starts picking up and examining various objects, a half-bottle of Canadian Club whisky, tiny paper cups stacked together, a gold watch. Celluci tries to keep an eye on Nolan while also paying attention to the man standing in front of him.
“You got me,” he says.
“You ever see that gun he was so proud of?” McKelvey asks.
Celluci looks agitated as Nolan begins to open and close drawers.
“Sure, I did. We took it out and shot some bottles off a fence. Is that a crime around here?”
“You didn’t mention that yesterday,” McKelvey says. “Maybe you’ve thought about it and realized you need an excuse for that gunshot residue on your hands.”
“Do you mind?” Celluci says, leaning to the side to address Nolan.
“And now that Gallagher’s gone, he can’t deny your story,” McKelvey continues.
“It’s the truth, what can I say? I think I’ll talk to my lawyer before I answer any more questions.”
Nolan shuts a drawer and opens another one, rummaging through clothes.
“Only the guilty lawyer up, Celluci,” McKelvey says. “But that’s fine. We can play your way. But tell me this. What does ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust’ mean to you and Gallagher?”
Celluci’s face betrays genuine confusion. “What are you talking about? Did Gallagher mention that?”
“Sure he did. Along with the trip and the tickets you bought him.”
Nolan looks at McKelvey. The information about the trip is new, and he looks both hurt and worried. Celluci shakes his head slowly, as though he’s just waking to some new reality.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s our inside joke about the landfill site, the incinerator making money for the town.”
“Is this from your target shooting?” Nolan says. He turns to reveal a spent shell casing wedged between thumb and forefinger, a dresser drawer open wide.
“That’s not mine,” Celluci says, shaking his head. “You put that there, you son of a bitch. What kind of backwoods police bullshit are you guys trying to pull?”
“I imagine you’ll want that lawyer now, Tony,” McKelvey says.
Later that afternoon, as evening begins to fall in shades of purple, Madsen squints through a magnifying glass while using tweezers to hold the new casing to the bulb of a desk lamp in the squad room. She feels like an eighteenth-century detective, and she may as well be for all of the technology she has at her disposal. But it is amazing to her, for all of the advances made, how the basics of detection have remained the same. She sits back and looks across at McKelvey, who sits in the Chief’s chair, and then over to Nolan, who sits on the edge of a desk with his arms crossed, watching and waiting. He has some white powder on the side of his face from a jelly doughnut.
“Same firing pin impression,” she says, “just right of centre. And same manufacturer’s markings. For all intents and purposes, this shell is of the same variety found at the murder scene and very likely was fired from the same weapon.”
Nolan nods. “So Celluci killed Wade Garson. We’ve got the evidence.”
Madsen watches McKelvey’s face as the veteran cop begins to smile. She knows what he is thinking, how wonderful life would be, how easy their jobs would be, if things were that simple. But she also knows that this is the best they have.
“The man tested positive for GSR. A spent shell casing in his possession appears to match the casing found at the scene of Wade Garson’s murder. People have been convicted on less than that,” Madsen says. “We can file with the circuit Justice tonight and seek a warrant. We’ve got probable grounds.”
“Celluci says he and good old boy Gallagher went out shooting at bottles,” McKelvey says. “That would cancel out both the GSR and the spent casing. Maybe he kept one in his pocket. Just to be your devil’s advocate here.”
“Except he was at the truck stop when the crime was committed,” says Nolan. “That’s opportunity, right?”
McKelvey nods.
“Nolan’s right,” Madsen says. “When you add that to the mix, we’ll have no trouble getting a warrant.”
Thirty
The snowfall abates and the memorial service for Mark Watson is organized for the following morning. The town is quiet and still this evening, utterly devoid of human activity, a vision of its future perhaps, as the few remaining municipal workers set about to clear the streets and sidewalks. The task will take two days.
McKelvey has made contact with George Fergus, the old miner, and he now sits at the man’s kitchen table with an untouched bottle of beer before him. Nolan is tending to his father and Madsen is catching up on some rest, having found the Co-op closed.
“The owner, a Gerry Kilrea, was caught in the storm picking up supplies down in Timmins,” she had reported. “He’ll be back later tonight. I’ll catch him at the service for Mark Watson.”
Now McKelvey fiddles with the label on the bottle, picking at it for purchase. How he used to spend hours in the bars and pubs after his shifts working to remove labels fully intact, as though this were some sort of accomplishment to be proud of. As though he would come home at midnight and wake Gavin to tell him the good news. Daddy slid four labels fully intact from bottles of beer tonight, son …
“Your old man, he was the real deal,” Fergus says.
The man’s hair is thick and uncombed, the colour of bone. The wrinkles on hi
s face are thick and deep as the rock he cut for decades. He must be eighty-five, McKelvey thinks, maybe even closer to ninety. The man’s body has withered with time and gravity, but there remain the remnants of a once-powerful chest and shoulders, thick biceps.
“He didn’t talk about work, except to bitch about management once and a while,” McKelvey says. “He never talked about that year, that’s for sure. Nobody ever did, not really. It’s like everybody tried to pretend nothing had happened.”
Fergus’s face changes, as though a cloud has passed over the sun. He drinks from his bottle of Molson Export and McKelvey watches the man’s Adam’s apple undulate beneath a sheet of wrinkled and slack flesh. The old man sets the bottle down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, an action that reminds McKelvey immediately of his own father.
“You want to know about all of that,” Fergus says. “Sleeping dogs, I’d say.”
McKelvey turns the bottle in his hand, but he does not drink. He has lost the taste for the stuff, which seems an unfathomable miracle.
“I know all about sleeping dogs,” McKelvey says. “Most of the men who were around at that time are dead or close to it. I just want to know the truth”
Fergus looks him in the eye. The old man’s eyes are yellowed but otherwise sharp. “You so sure about that, kid?” he says.
McKelvey doesn’t say anything.
“You think it’s going to help you understand your old man, see him in a different light? Change your opinion of him one way or the other?”
“It might help explain a lot of things. What happened that year affected all of us. Everybody who lived in this town. Especially the kids who had fathers being taken down to the police station for questioning. We lived with the weight of that silence our entire lives.”
Fergus pushes his empty bottle away and eases back in his chair. “The truth shall set you free. Is that it?”
“Duncan said I shouldn’t believe everything I hear about my father.”
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