This Thing of Darkness

by Barbara Fradkin

  Green glanced at his watch. “When?”

  “As soon as I get upstairs.”

  Green hesitated. She was so caught up in the case that she’d forgotten it was Saturday. Her time with her daughter. Yet this time, the haste was premature. “The other thing the tape proves is that the prostitute is important. We need to find her and get her statement before you have another run at Omar. Any word yet on who and where she is?”

  Levesque scowled, her eyes clouding. “Not yet.”

  “Let’s just check the latest.” Green turned to head back to the exit, remembering at the last minute to thank the technician. It was something Sullivan would have done, always mindful to show respect and appreciation for those under him. In his headlong rush to solve the case, Green often forgot that others existed.

  Up in the squad room, Green made some phone calls to the hospital and to Sharon while Levesque busied herself gathering updates. Sharon was surprisingly gentle and understanding when he apologized for being delayed by the demands of the case.

  “How’s Brian?” she asked immediately.

  He was taken aback. How well she knows me, he thought. Work has always been my escape route. He filled her in on his disastrous morning encounters with Brian and with Mary.

  “The only thing you can do for him, honey, is to be there when he does learn the truth.”

  He grimaced. “Being there” had never been his forte. “The best thing I can do for him right now is solve this case,” he countered, “and it looks as if it’s cracking open a bit.”

  There was a silence, then, “Have you identified that photo Brian had?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on it, especially now—” He broke off as a dreadful thought struck him. He glanced through his open office door to see Levesque striding towards him. “Look, I have to go now. I’ll fill you in when I get home.”

  Levesque came in shaking her head. Before he could voice his fear, she said, “As I thought, some progress but nothing exceptional. A bus driver on the number two route recognized her, says he often picks her up in the Beacon Hill area and drops her off on Rideau Street.”

  Green considered this information. Beacon Hill was a mixed but largely middle-class residential area in the east end of the city, featuring older homes with established families and stable, modest incomes. There were some lower income and subsidized rental properties, but it was hardly the area one would expect a young street prostitute to live in.

  “Anything else?”

  “Our guys spoke to one Blueline cabbie who remembers picking her up several times at the Nelson Street address—”

  “Ahah!”

  She shook her head. “Most times he just delivered her to Rideau Street. Dr. Rosenthal would hand him the money and give him an address—the cabbie didn’t remember it, but it was somewhere in the east end.”

  “Well, it would be in their log.”

  “No, because as soon as they drove off, the woman would tell him to drop her on Rideau Street, and she’d ask him for the extra money.”

  Green processed the implications. “So the good doctor was trying to help her, but she was playing him.”

  She shrugged. “Probably she had a habit to feed. A lot of basically decent girls can find themselves in a bad corner.”

  The glimpse of compassion surprised him. “Anyone on the streets give any more leads?”

  She nodded. “She’s a familiar face. She’s been around for a few months, off and on, but she’s not homeless. That’s to say, the outreach people don’t know her, and she never uses the shelters or kitchens.”

  “No. My guess is she goes back to a regular home in Beacon Hill.”

  “Maybe tonight... It’s Saturday night, she might put in an appearance. I can tell the patrols to keep an eye out. She’ll surface eventually.”

  “We can’t wait for eventually. I want you to release that photo to the news media. We can get it on the local news websites and maybe on TV bulletins right away.”

  “But sir, that may drive her underground. By tonight we should—”

  “We can’t afford to wait.” Levesque was frowning at him, puzzled. “Think about it, Marie Claire. Omar’s father has just tipped off Nadif that Omar remembers a hooker. We don’t know how she fits into the murder scenario, but we can bet one thing. If she was there, if the boys think she saw anything, then Nadif will be looking for her. He’ll want to find her as badly as we do, and he’s not as nice as we are. So we’d better find her first.”

  Green rounded the corner into the hospital waiting room and stopped in surprise. The small TV in the corner was on mute, but the crime scene on Rideau Street filled the screen. A moment later, the grainy photo from the pawn shop video flashed up. That was fast, Green thought.

  The waiting room was nearly empty. Only a couple of seats were filled by visitors likely waiting for medical updates. He located the remote control on the table nearby and hunted among the various buttons for one that would turn on the sound.

  “The woman is not a suspect,” the TV suddenly blasted. “But police are interested in questioning her about the events of last Saturday night, when the seventy-five-year-old retired psychiatrist was assaulted on Rideau Street.”

  The visitors glared, and Green hammered the volume button. “As of today, the police have few leads. Anyone with any information concerning the identity or whereabouts of the woman in this photo is asked to phone Ottawa Police at 613-555-2333.” The camera then panned out over footage of yesterday’s crash, focussing on the crushed remains of the Impala beneath the pick-up truck. “The investigation took an even more tragic turn yesterday when a motor vehicle crash killed one of the police witnesses, a young University of Ottawa woman from Timmins who lived in Dr. Rosenthal’s building. Two Ottawa Police officers were also injured in the crash, which occurred when—”

  A groan sounded behind him and Green whirled around to see Sullivan standing at the entrance to the room with his IV pole. Sullivan sagged against the wall, his face grey with horror.

  Green leaped to his side. “Jeez, Brian! What are you doing out of bed?”

  Sullivan was shaking his head back and forth. “I knew it. I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

  Green dragged him to a chair and thrust him into it. Sullivan bent forward, trembling. His breath came in deep, shuddering gasps. Green looked frantically around for a staff person, but the halls were empty. He clutched Sullivan’s arm.

  “You feeling all right? Dizzy? Any pain?”

  “They’re supposed to walk,” came a voice from the corner, where an elderly woman sat reading a book.

  “Feeling all right?” Sullivan said. “I just killed a woman, Mike.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “That was me! Losing control, passing out! That was this fucking useless body! Killing some poor kid who should have had sixty good years of life left in her.”

  Green groped for Sullivan’s pulse. Not that he would know what he was feeling, but at least he could tell how fast it was going. Where the hell were all the doctors! And why were they letting him wander around unattended?

  Sullivan shook off his hand. “Do you think I give a fuck about me right now? Did you see it? Tell me what the hell happened!”

  Green thought fast. He wanted to shout for help, he wanted above all to be anywhere but here, forced to tell his friend the worst news of his life. He took a deep breath to slow his own racing heart and tried to project a soothing command. “Okay. I will tell you. But first I need you to sit back, breathe deeply, and calm down. Let me go get a nurse—”

  “No! They’ll try to stop you from telling me, like they have all day. Don’t you think I already suspected the worst? That I’d killed people? Maybe mowed down a mother and her half dozen little kids? Why do you think I came out here? So I could see what they were hiding!” Sullivan sat back, his blue eyes blazing and his face now bright red. “I’m calm enough. You fucking tell me.”

  “You did not kill half a dozen little kids.�
�� Green searched for a way to ease into the revelation. “You were bringing me a photo line-up to show my witness, a young woman who rented from Rosenthal. You remember that?”

  Sullivan nodded. “I remember preparing the line-up, stopping to talk to Screech—”

  “Do you remember what he said?”

  Sullivan nodded. “I asked him about the mystery woman. He...” Sullivan frowned as if searching through the cobwebs of his memory. “He called her Foxy, because she wore a fur coat in the cold weather.”

  Green’s thoughts raced. A fur coat wasn’t conclusive, but it fit the comfortably middle-class neighbourhood of Beacon Hill. Sullivan’s colour was marginally better—pink now instead of fuchsia—as he set his mind to work.

  “He thinks our suspects hit on her, and she told them to bugger off. That’s all I remember.” He flinched as if in pain and the grey horror returned to his face. Green felt his own pulse spike. “What did I do, Mike?”

  “You lost control—probably passed out as you said—and hit the police car I’d parked in front of Rosenthal’s place. That’s all you hit. Unfortunately—” Here Green paused, fighting a sudden tightness in his chest. “I had left my witness in the back seat to wait for me while I spoke...” He stopped. No point in complicating things. Sullivan needed to rest, not become more embroiled in the case. “She was in the car.”

  “And I killed her.”

  “Your truck killed her.”

  A strangled grunt escaped Sullivan’s lips. “Fuck you, Mike. You can’t make this go away. I knew I was in trouble. I’d been in pain all morning. My gut was churning, and I’d been ignoring it for weeks. Got an appointment with my GP for some time in the next decade. I was actually going home early yesterday—”

  “But I made you do one last stop.”

  Sullivan shook his head. “No, that’s Mary’s take. I chose this. I chose to ignore the pain, climb behind the wheel of the truck, and set that five thousand-pound death machine in motion.”

  “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

  “Of course I could have known! How many times have we seen that scenario? Guy thinks it could never happen to him, just heartburn, and boom! I should have pulled over when I felt the light-headedness, and my muscles not obeying me any more...” He stopped. Frowned. “As things closed in, I do remember thinking ‘there’s a parked car. If I can just hit that’.”

  Green felt sick. Tears were brimming in Sullivan’s eyes, and Green felt his own throat constrict. He babbled to stave off thought. “You were doing the best you could. And if that girl hadn’t been there, if I hadn’t put her there—”

  “No! You can’t take this off me, Mike!”

  “She didn’t want to wait. I insisted.”

  Sullivan was staring at the floor, his hands hanging limply between his knees and a single tear running down to the tip of his nose. “The difference is, you couldn’t have known. I should have. That’s why you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe not tonight, but eventually. I won’t.”

  Eighteen

  Green started his car, leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and breathed deeply to wrestle his emotions under control. This was no one’s fault, he told himself over and over, but he knew it would take more than words to shake the profound guilt they both felt. Sullivan’s doctor had ordered him back to bed and prescribed a mild sedative. He was fast asleep before Green was even out the door.

  Green had no such oblivion. He wanted nothing more than a few hours with his family, playing with Tony in the park and sharing his distress with Sharon. But she was headed for work soon. At most, he’d be able to steal an hour with her, but not unless he hurried. Finally he fished his cellphone out of his pocket and dialled Levesque’s cell. She picked up after the second ring.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Still at the station.”

  “Good. According to Screech, the homeless man on that street corner, our four punks tried to pick up the hooker that Saturday night. Probably shortly after that video was taken. So when you do bring Omar in for further questioning—”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “What!”

  “A cruiser has just picked him up. I’m setting the video up now.”

  Green bit back his outrage. What had happened to his request that she hold off until they had the hooker’s story? The woman was insubordinate as well as stubborn. A strangely familiar combination, he conceded with a ghost of a smile, glancing at his watch. It was at most a fifteen-minute drive from Omar Adams’ house to the police headquarters. Even allowing for paperwork formalities, Omar would get to the interview room before he did.

  “Sir? Do you want to observe?”

  Green was surprised that she was asking. They were making progress. He thought of his family waiting for him at home and of Sharon’s comforting arms and unflappable common sense. By the time he finished at the police station, she would be long gone to work.

  “I do. Hold off until I get there.”

  Twenty minutes later he found Levesque in the video control room, watching Omar on camera as she prepared her questions. The young man had adopted his trademark pose, sitting very still with his eyes closed and his arms folded as if in meditation. His expression betrayed no emotion, but he looked gaunt and strained, as if sleep had eluded him recently.

  He didn’t move a muscle all the time that Green and Levesque looked over her questions, but Green sensed he was attuned to every sound. His eyes flew open the instant Levesque and Charbonneau entered the room. His nostrils flared as he wrestled to bring his fear under control. Green watched while Levesque led him through some preliminary instructions about the process and repeated the caution before asking if he wished to add anything to his previous statement. Omar shook his head.

  “My Dad’s hotshot lawyer charges a thousand bucks to walk in the door. I don’t need him here. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  Levesque hid her smile and made a show of consulting her notes. “We have some new evidence. I want to give you a chance to respond. We have a witness who says you have remembered more things about that night.”

  “I remember nothing! I had some beer, some bad weed, and I went home. I fell on my way home.”

  “The witness says you ran into a hydro pole.”

  Omar frowned. He sat very still a few seconds, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “The witness also says you were running at the time.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Running like you were scared. Like you were running from something.”

  “Well, that’s news to me.”

  “You don’t remember running down Nelson and along Clarence Street, running smack into a hydro pole and landing in the street?”

  Omar was shaking his head, but a shard of memory seemed to have broken loose. He looked off-balance. Uncertain. “Maybe.”

  Levesque jotted some notes and studied her file. In the corner, Charbonneau stood by the door, taking notes. They both continued to scribble as the silence lengthened.

  “We have another witness who saw you that night, Omar. Saw you approach a prostitute on the corner near where Dr. Rosenthal was killed.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, you do. Maybe not all the details, but you remember the hooker.” Levesque laid the picture of the mystery woman on the table. “Does she ring any bells?”

  Omar stared at the picture and swallowed, his Adam’s apple travelling up and down his lean, curved neck. “She looks familiar. We might have talked to her.”

  “About what?”

  “About... You know. We were wasted.”

  “Looking for action?”

  He inclined his head. “I don’t remember much. It was mostly Nadif ’s idea.”

  “What was she like? Nice? Friendly?”

  He shrugged. “I remember weird. She was yelling. Nadif said...” He rubbed his face. Blinked his eyes. “I remember he said he’d work a deal.”

  “And then w
hat happened? Did you all have sex with her?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think...” Omar stopped. His eyes widened, and he seemed to press back against the wall.

  “What are you remembering?”

  “I was wasted! Dizzy. Sick! I just wanted to get away.”

  “From what?”

  “I didn’t want it. I’m not like that.”

  Levesque laughed. “Omar, it was Saturday night. You were wasted, on the make. You expect me to believe you turned down a perfectly good chance to get laid because ‘you’re not like that’? She’s a hooker! She invited you!”

  Omar thrust his lower lip out. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened with her.”

  “Your first time?”

  He flinched. “No.”

  “Sad not to remember your first time.”

  He scowled. Glanced at Charbonneau as if for rescue, but finding nothing but a stone wall, he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Maybe I did her, maybe I didn’t. But whatever I did, it’s not a crime.”

  “Does your father beat you, Omar?”

  He stiffened. “What? No!”

  “Never hurt you or tried to toughen you up?”

  “He’s tough, but he doesn’t hit or anything. There’s lots of ways to be tough.”

  “What other ways?”

  Omar scowled. “What the fuck does it matter?”

  “He calls you a coward. He said you never had the nerve to fight, never even to defend yourself.”

  “He’s full of shit.”

  “Have you ever been in a fight? Ever used your fists?”

  “I’m not an idiot. You think you’ll get me bragging, maybe even admitting I beat up helpless old men.”

  Point to Omar, Green thought. He’s smarter than he seems. This time it was Levesque’s turn to shrug. She looked supremely uninterested. “Even the most cowardly, crapped-upon worm turns eventually. Lashes back. I just asked if you ever did.”

  “I never had to,” Omar snapped back. “I learned to outsmart the old man and outlast him. Only an idiot lashes out, and that only gets him in trouble.”

  “So you get other people in trouble instead, is that it? People who aren’t as smart as you, like Nadif and Yusuf.”