by Mel Bradshaw
The tape made both men quiet. At length, Markus took it on himself to toughen them up.
“We mustn’t idealize her,” he said. “Karin could be damned annoying to live with. I’ve never known anyone so capable of taking the last cold beer without popping another in the fridge, or taking the last Kleenex without getting another box from the linen closet. You could extend that right across the board. She’d take the last bit of soft butter without pulling more out. She’d forget to thaw meat from the freezer. She never seemed to notice when supplies were getting low and should be added to a shopping list. That was always her mother’s job, even long after her mother died. The worst was when she took the last sheets of toilet paper without replacing the roll and I was caught short in the middle of the night. Did she drive you crazy that way too?”
As the examples piled up, Ted was half afraid Markus was going to accuse Karin of dying without leaving a replacement of herself.
Ted could think of his own examples of her improvidence, but wasn’t interested in playing this game. The better he knew Karin, the more he’d adjusted to being the one who added windshield washer fluid to the car, both cars, or liquid soap to the kitchen dispenser. He’d never wanted to be married to a maid. And what did running out of cleaning supplies matter anyway, compared to running out of her company, of her love?
When Markus tired of criticizing his darling, his face became solemn and he excused himself to get something from the car. Presently he returned with a long black nylon case. Out of it he drew a rifle of an old-fashioned design. Around 1900, Ted thought.
“Markus—”
“It’s a Swedish Mauser. You won’t find a better-made gun. Because of Sweden’s neutrality in both world wars, there were never any wartime production shortcuts. The army used this right through to the 1950s. The metal parts are Swedish steel—machined, not stamped, for the most part.”
“Markus, put the gun away,” said Ted.
Markus zipped the Mauser back into its case. “Don’t you want to heft it?” he coaxed. “Nine pounds—heavy, but not too heavy. Relax. I have a permit.”
“I doubt if it authorizes you to titillate yourself with it in my kitchen.”
“Fine, Ted. The gun was just a prop. What I came to tell you is that until that boy is sentenced, he is working every evening in the front of a store with big plate glass windows. I don’t have to keep myself out of jail. I have no family left.”
This is the week, thought Ted, the first week in November. His father-in-law had been a widower ten years. That didn’t make him any more likely to kill Shawn, though, did it?
Markus was a playful man, but serious about his play. He liked to use jokes in his work. When he’d gone out west in his teens, he’d played in jazz and rock groups—deadpan, to hear him tell it, but laughing all the while at the performance he was giving. He’d said he felt so many possibilities in himself that until he had a wife and daughter, he’d doubted that any rôle would ever feel like it was really him.
“If they lock me up for shooting the guy,” Markus continued, on his feet and as earnest now as Ted had ever seen him, “it won’t be for long. Incarceration is so costly and so unfashionable, they’ll probably just look at my grey hair and send me home with an ankle bracelet.”
“And then,” Ted countered, “you’ll be qualified to join a gang and make a career of settling scores.”
Markus was ready for this charge. “Ah, there’s a difference, though,” he said. “The gangster demonstrates his organization’s power by whacking you and will feel cheated if the state hangs you first. The vigilante—a different animal altogether.” The older man dropped onto the kitchen chair across from Ted. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “A vigilante like me wants the state to punish you, but is willing to step up to the plate himself as a last resort. To see justice done, and to get lawmakers to address the retribution deficit. Now, in Shawn’s case, the beauty of it is there’s zero risk of my executing the wrong party. By accepting the plea bargain, he’s acknowledged he killed Karin. Think of it, my friend—capital punishment without the possibility of judicial error. I don’t need your permission, Ted. Just don’t be surprised.”
Twang! Bang! It was all bluff and puff for Ted’s money. A rock performance with fireworks. Still, pointless to call it. “Let me talk to the Crown, Markus. Maybe something can be done that won’t land either one of us in the dock.”
It took Eliot Szabo from Friday to Tuesday to return Ted’s phone call and another two days after that to find a time when they might meet. Not in the Crown attorneys’ office on the fifth floor of the Brampton courthouse. With all the security measures in place, it wasn’t convenient to receive members of the public there. Szabo suggested the Liberty Bar in East Side Mario’s—just across Hurontario Street, six p.m. on Thursday.
Ted made use of the week to study the Criminal Code, to work on his Victim Impact Statement, and to shop at the Handy Buy at times when Shawn was alone there. These visits always required a great deal of self-control. Ted rehearsed carefully. His breathing, his walk. He practised his lines. These were nothing more than asking for a particular item the first two times. But on his third visit Wednesday night, when he’d got his change, he placed a piece of paper on the counter and asked for directions. He pretended he had to find an address near where the Whittakers lived, a twenty minute drive from the shop. Shawn looked at Ted’s sketch map and made a mark with Ted’s pen. He was cool, Ted gave him that. Less exuberant than previously, more settled, graver. He was growing out his dark hair. But Ted thought Shawn looked nervous too. A vein in Shawn’s forehead was pulsing in a way Ted had never seen before. Was Shawn going to ask him what he was coming around for or tell him to get lost? He did neither that night, and Ted didn’t intend to give him another chance.
Next day Szabo arrived on time for their drink, but Ted was there before him, already perched on a tall chair at one of the tall tables, sipping a large Coke with ice. The lawyer ordered a Heineken, to which the barmaid replied that there was none on tap.
“A bottle’s fine, my dear. A better size for me, in any case. Our problem, Ted, is this. We can prove Shawn entered your house and stole your computer, but we can’t prove that he killed Karin, or was even in the house when she died.”
“Did the detectives give you any reason to think anyone else came in that night?”
“No, but they can’t prove someone didn’t. This character Scar, for instance.”
“But manslaughter, Eliot? That’s a logical impossibility. Whoever killed Karin either meant to cause her death or meant to cause her bodily harm likely to cause death and was reckless as to whether death ensued or not. That’s what the pathologist’s report shows, and that’s murder—not manslaughter. Furthermore, irrespective of what you mean or how reckless you are, if you kill someone in order to facilitate the crime of break and enter or in order to get away afterward, that’s murder. Not manslaughter. Let Shawn plead not guilty if he likes, but whoever is guilty is a murderer.”
“That’s the letter of the law, but you want to get yourself an annotated version of the Code. That section about homicide in the commission of an offence has been modified by the Supreme Court.” The height of the chairs made them impossible to tip, but Szabo leaned back as best he could and patted his bald spot. His beer and a frosted glass stood untouched on the table in front of him. “You and I can agree to call it murder between ourselves, but why should we care what the court calls it? I told you I put murderers in jail, and that’s exactly where Karin’s killer is going.”
“For how long?”
“Natasha and I have agreed on a joint recommendation of six years.”
“Six?” Ted hadn’t thought he had any breath left to take away. “This kid—this man is dangerous.”
“Most killers never kill again,” Szabo pointed out.
How often had Ted surprised his students with this very statistic? “Shawn could be one of the exceptions,” he now argued. “Break and enter
is a high recidivism crime. Another chance encounter with a householder could well mean another death.”
“Well, six is just a submission. There’ll still be a reading of the Agreed Statement of Facts, followed at some point—the same day or later—by a sentencing hearing. You’ll get to read your Victim Impact Statement. The judge could give him a longer sentence.”
“Or a shorter one.”
“Right,” said Szabo. “There’s no minimum unless a firearm is used. Frankly, I’m surprised Natasha went as high as she did.”
“Eliot! Doesn’t six years mean he can apply for full parole after two?”
“Yep.”
“And in any case—unless he screws up—he gets statutory release after four, right?”
“That’s about it.” Szabo looked as if he were ready to pour his beer at last, but—perhaps to get through it quicker—started drinking from the bottle instead.
“What would it take,” asked Ted, “to open this deal up again?”
“That would only happen now if Shawn were to change his lawyer. Are you sorry you didn’t take me up on my offer to recuse myself?”
“I don’t know,” said Ted. “I’d like a copy of this Agreed Statement of Facts.”
“You’ll get to hear it read in court.”
“Before then—today.”
“We’re still finalizing the wording,” said Szabo. “It’s too late to change anything anyway.”
“Eliot, you just contradicted yourself.”
“I guess I did.” Szabo grinned self-deprecatingly.
“So?”
“We can’t give it to you in any case.”
“If you think the judge won’t want the document out in the world before it’s presented in court, how about letting me read it in your office, no photocopies?”
“Afraid I don’t have time.”
No time to deal with Ted’s emotional reaction, perhaps, but Ted suspected darker considerations.
“Ted,” said Szabo, “what is it you really want?”
“I want to see what selection of so-called facts could possibly support the deal you’ve reached. Did you promise Shawn’s lawyer not to let me see it?”
Eliot Szabo was slow to answer. “I can’t stop you from thinking so.”
Such a compact was pretty much what Ted had expected to find when he picked this particular scab, but the poison was still bitter. Everything he discovered about the system of criminal law seemed calculated to weaken his sense of obligation to it.
“I’m glad you’re a man of your word,” he told Szabo. “Can you get me a copy of the post-mortem?”
“We’re not filing the p-m as an exhibit, so there’s no need to go over that with you. We never give out copies.”
“Need or no need,” Ted insisted, “let me have a look.”
“I don’t have it any more.” Szabo finished his beer and wiped his lips on a cocktail napkin. “You can try the detectives if you like.”
Ted did not point out that Nelson was already in trouble for what he’d told him about Karin’s injuries.
“You’re giving yourself a lot of torment over this, Ted. Call me a jerk, but I thought a criminologist would understand the process.”
“Most criminologists never lose a loved one to crime.”
Szabo left a sympathetic interval. “That must be rotten,” he said. The tone of his voice and the expression on his face seemed sincere, if a shade remote.
Ted nodded slowly. “Rotten. Are you married, Eliot?”
“Divorced. My son and daughter mean a lot to me, although we’ve never lived much together. Look, Ted, I don’t want to preach at you. But will it really lighten your grief or ease your dead wife’s soul to see Shawn Whittaker punished more rather than less?”
“It will show that in the eyes of the community, the life of one citizen counts for something. Yes, that’s important—to me and to Karin’s father as well. He’s suffering cruelly, as you can guess.”
“Then you have to get your impact statement in, so we can get copies distributed. The hearing is less than two weeks away. If you’re having trouble writing it, I can help you.”
“I can write it, Eliot. Where I’ll need your help is in getting permission to read it.”
“Say, can you get the check if I leave you some dough? As long as you don’t criticize Shawn, make specific sentencing recommendations, or talk about the crime rather than its effects, you’ll be allowed to read your statement. Not ad lib, mind, read—exactly what you’ve written. That’s what you’re owed.”
“And you’ll see to it that’s what I get?”
“Sure.” Szabo stood up and stacked a few large coins in front of Ted. “Least I can do.”
“You’re a hard man to get hold of.”
It was Saturday morning, the morning of Remembrance Day. Nelson had just emerged from the Derry Road building where Major Crime was based and was about to get into his unmarked black sedan when Ted pulled into the parking lot. The Emil V. Kolb Centre had the reassuring look of a civilian office building, evidently dating from before the bunker era of police architecture.
“Yeah, Ted,” he said. “I’ve been avoiding you.”
“Can I buy you coffee?”
“Naw, I got to be somewhere.” The detective zipped up his jacket against a nasty wind, glanced at Ted, and relented. “Come sit in the car for a minute if you like.”
“Let’s sit in mine,” said Ted. “It’ll be warmer.”
Nelson packed himself into the Corolla’s passenger seat, which he slid all the way back. His knees still rose well above his lap.
“Tracy thought you’d be relieved you don’t have to testify,” he said. “But I knew you wouldn’t like this deal, and I didn’t want to have to pretend I did. Yeah, it closes the case, but it leaves a bad taste.” He grimaced, as if he really had something unpleasant in his mouth.
“Thanks for saying so, James. I’m trying to move on. I’ve written a Victim Impact Statement.” Ted handed Nelson a single page. “I’ve faxed a copy to the Crown as well. I’d appreciate it if you could have a look before you stuff it in your pocket.”
Nelson, who had already folded the document in three, opened it reluctantly. Maybe he was afraid soap opera sentiment about the dear wife was going to gush out from it and drown him. His eyes got bigger as he read.
“Now this is different,” he said. He read without further comment to the end. “You’re pleading for leniency for Shawn Whittaker.”
“Correct, detective.”
“On the basis of information he supplied about a motorcycle gang called the Dark Arrows, including the location of their secret clubhouse and the lab where they turn out ecstasy tablets to peddle to teenage ravers.”
“That’s what it says.” The ring of confidence Ted heard in his own voice belied his one big doubt.
He might yet have to withdraw his Victim Impact Statement on account of the danger represented by Scar. Scar alone knew that he—Scar—had told Shawn nothing of the Dark Arrows or their assets, but that as Shawn’s recruiter and mentor, he’d be held responsible for any snitching the gang believed Shawn to have done. To save himself, Scar would have to hunt down the true source of the leak. However reckless Ted’s grief made him of his own safety, he had to recognize that the trail that would bring the quiet-spoken biker to his doorstep one evil night would most probably run through Layla and Melody.
“Who exactly did Shawn supply this information to?” Nelson wanted to know.
“Could it have been to you, James?”
“I didn’t hear anything like this from him.”
“Then it must have been to me.”
“When? Where?”
“At the Handy Buy, in the last week or so. If Wednesday’s security tape hasn’t been recorded over, you can see him marking a location for me on a map.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps to ease his conscience.”
“Puh-leeze, Ted.”
“Or perhap
s in the hope that I’d put in a good word for him in my Victim Impact Statement, although I hasten to say I offered no inducement and made no promises.”
“You realize you can be cross-examined. Shawn’s lawyer will shred you up so fine, the judge will need an microscope to see the bits.”
“As long as the judge lets me read it, James, I don’t care. It’s not written for His Honour. My intended audience will recognize the substance of the revelations as true, and they already doubt Shawn’s discretion.”
“I’m not going to pretend the accused told me any of this.”
“I respect that,” said Ted. “Let’s say he told me. Here’s a second page with all the juicy details and addresses.” Ted passed Nelson everything he’d discovered about the drug lab and everything Melody had heard about the clubhouse and its security. About Chuckles’s police work he revealed nothing. Nor, despite his warning to Dwayne, did Ted mention the burn Shawn suffered during a visit to the store by Chuckles and Scar. “What I’m asking,” Ted continued, “is that you take this information to your superiors or to the province’s Biker Enforcement Unit, or to whoever is in a position to mount the appropriate raids. So the Dark Arrows don’t get a chance to just move operations somewhere else.”
“I’ve got no problem with causing those racists some grief. You want them hurting by the time you finger Shawn.”
Ted said nothing. He didn’t want Nelson thinking too much about this part of the plan. Nelson, however, could cope.
“By the time you deliver this,” the detective continued, “Shawn Whittaker will be under the watchful eye of the court. From the sentencing hearing he’ll go straight to prison, and we know inmates are perfectly safe in those places.” He nodded ironically.
“Perfectly,” said Ted. He’d read, and had no reason to doubt, that during the 1990s, the number of people murdered while in custody in Ontario was sixteen, more than one a year.
“Yeah,” said Nelson. “Safer than on the street, in fact. So all you’re doing is giving Shawn an incentive not to apply for early parole.”
“One more thing.” This was no time for Ted to be squeamish. “Tell whoever mounts the raids to be especially on the lookout for Scar Hollister. If ever there were a man too dangerous to be given the benefit of a warning shot . . .”