The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery

by Richard Cain

  Carscadden asked, “Karen, now you’re a journalist, so you still investigate stories. Do you miss policing as much as Nastos does?”

  “Why, are you hiring?”

  Carscadden laughed. “We were bouncing our own paycheques two years ago. No, seriously. I enjoy law but I find the investigations so much more interesting, not knowing where things are going to go, trying to solve the puzzles.”

  Nastos thought that Grant would avoid the question. She left policing only because she was forced to quit. It wasn’t easy to talk about regrets. He was living that life every day.

  She said, “Yeah I do.” Her smile disappeared and her eyes watered. “I thought after policing it would be different. I thought I’d hang on to the friendships, I thought there would be a bigger job market afterwards, but you’re only hot for the first two years then the interest wanes. But the worst part? The deaths, the unsolved rapes, the lunatics that escape. I’d say the worst part is that you forget all the parts you want to remember and remember all the parts you want to forget.”

  While Carscadden drove to the Fourteen Division police station at 150 Harrison Street near Dundas and Ossington, Nastos absently flipped through pictures of Josie and Madeleine on his cellphone. He had stored shots from Halloween, trips to the Science Centre. Intermixed were images taken during the Bannerman investigation. He paused on a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Bannerman with their daughter. It reminded him of what Josie would never have again — her mother. He put the phone back in his pocket and took out his notebook. He had scribbled down a description of the two suspected cops Falconer had given in the video when directly questioned by Grant. As they drove by city buses, cyclists and construction zones he asked Carscadden, “So what did you think of the presentation?”

  Carscadden turned the radio to Boom 97.3 and leaned back in his chair. The station was on a run of hits from the ’80s and playing something from Tears for Fears. “The part that got me thinking was when Falconer said that she had hung around so many criminals in the past few years and she figured the guys who shot Walker were cops. Someone with her background can smell the bacon a mile away. When she says she thinks they were cops, you have to take it seriously.”

  Carscadden checked his blind spot and changed lanes to avoid a stopped delivery truck. The traffic on Queen Street was stop and go like always.

  “I don’t like that I agree with you. I just hope she’s wrong.”

  Carscadden turned the radio down when it went to commercial. “You’d think that as a journalist and ex-cop, Grant could find out for herself who these two guys are.”

  Nastos was reluctant to answer questions about his ex-partner but Carscadden wasn’t going to be satisfied until he knew more. “Well, she left on bad terms. Started working for the Toronto Tribune while she was still a cop. Unproven allegations that she stole police information for stories. In exchange for charges being dropped she quit and was branded a rat. After leaving that way, she doesn’t have as many connections as you’d think. She could get the information but it would take her a long time. This will be faster.”

  “A rat? People still talk like that?”

  “To most people trust is a virtue. To a cop it’s a character flaw because of the type of people we have to deal with.”

  “The One Percenters?”

  “Yeah. You think there’s no reasoning with a drunk, well, try reasoning with a drug addict. Or a criminal narcissist who thinks he’s the only person who matters and that rules don’t apply to him. Cops find it best to not trust anyone, not even other cops. You keep your head down, do what you need to do to clear the case.” Nastos felt himself talking as if he were still a cop and it felt alien to him. “Sometimes you have to do something that is not entirely in the approved playbook. Normal procedures go right out the window and if you’re going to cross the line to solve a case, sometimes you may not even want your partner knowing about it. We call it the Ways and Means Act.”

  “Ways and Means Act. Sure it wasn’t just you, Nastos? You’re not exactly the trusting type.”

  “Twenty-five years of policing will do that to a person. So when you resort to the Ways and Means Act, you want to be careful. Karen Grant has dirt on cops, me included. And I can’t trust her one hundred percent now that she’s a journalist for a newspaper that isn’t exactly police friendly.”

  “So in general, no specifics, when cops cross the line — give me some examples.”

  “You need to get into a car for a search, need to get information out of a person, need to find someone, need someone to leave the city and never come back, you go right to the Ways and Means Act.”

  “And that means?”

  “Quasi-legal drug searches, roadside interrogations that might include threats of violence or actual violence. Maybe you send a few hookers to a guy’s house when you know he’s out but his wife is home and turn the heat up for him at home. The Ways and Means Act is a book of dirty tricks that police employ to make the city a better place where reason cannot work with unreasonable people.

  “That is where we get into trust. You do these things with your partner but you should never actually trust them. And Karen Grant proved the reason why. She quit and joined the media. Now anyone who has ever used those policing tactics with her has to wonder if it will be featured someday in a newspaper article.

  “For cops out there, me, for example, maybe half a dozen other guys, we have a specific concern with Karen; everyone else has a general concern. I think it’s safe to say that she doesn’t have a single police contact for anything. And that can’t bode well for her crime journalism career unless she starts publishing secrets.”

  Carscadden thought it over, eventually turning the radio back up. “Still, though, best-looking rat I’ve ever seen. I thought maybe she just likes having you around again. And you know she’s smart, attractive, and has a good job.”

  “Yeah, she’s the hottest woman I want nothing to do with.”

  They stopped at a red light. Checking the road ahead they saw that construction had a lane shut down and it was going to take a while to get around it. “What has she done that makes you talk like that? Just that she became a journalist?”

  Nastos shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s the passionate, highly emotional, borderline stalker type.”

  “She can stalk me any day.” Carscadden rummaged for his phone and checked for messages. “Why don’t we just call the station, save the drive? What’s the number?”

  “It’s the main police line, the 4-1-6-8-0-8 number. The last four digits are one, four, zero, zero for the Division. But we can’t call; this is the kind of thing you have to do in person.”

  “So we’re just going to walk in and ask to speak to whoever runs the place, the Superintendent?”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Nastos replied. “The constables run a division; the brass cut ribbons and prepare reports about saving paper clips. If you want answers like these you ask the front-line guys.”

  Visitor parking was full, which Nastos, after twenty-five years of policing, still found perplexing. Who the hell visits a police station? They parked down the street on Dovercourt Road and had to walk back. The front office was busy, two cops at the counter, one on the phone and the other trying to avoid eye contact with whoever walked in.

  Nastos went to the guy on the phone and waited. He was stocky, maybe late thirties, with traces of grey in his black goatee. Nastos made note of the name tag: Katounis. It was a Greek name just like his own.

  The cop hung up the phone and took a breath. “Are you two together?”

  Carscadden replied, “We get asked that all the time but we’re just friends.”

  Officer Katounis didn’t laugh. Instead he appeared annoyed. “Okay, what is it then?”

  Nastos rested both of his hands on the counter. “Listen, my name is Steve Nastos, I used to be a detective with Toronto. I retired and no
w I’m a private investigator. You get a hold of anyone who worked with me and they will tell you they hate me, I was a bit of an asshole, but when it came to the thin blue line, I was the most solid guy in the police service.”

  The cop’s eyes moved from Carscadden to Nastos, like he was wondering if another stupid joke was coming his way, then a flash of recognition appeared on his face. “Hey, are you the guy that punched the —”

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I can’t really get into that. If I said anything it would make you a witness to a spontaneous utterance and I doubt you want to spend any time in a witness box.”

  Katounis pursed his lips as he thought. “So you two investigated that missing girl case.”

  “Yeah, Lindsay Bannerman.”

  “So whatever happened to that psychic guy?”

  Nastos shrugged. “No offence, but thinking about that drives me crazy.” The other officer at the counter left and Nastos felt more comfortable talking. “We’re here on business, unfortunately. This is the deal. My client is some half-crazy, rich old lady. She was driving home the other day and was struck from behind by a car load of morons. They jumped out of the car and started yelling at her, made her feel like it was her fault. Two other guys were driving by, and offered to help, they said they were cops. They were young, she says, good looking, didn’t seem like druggies to her, but they were in plain clothes and didn’t show her the tin. Like she’d know a real badge if she ever saw one. Anyways, like I said, she has cash. She wants to give them a reward for helping her out, a few hundred bucks each. I don’t want their names from you. I understand the rules.”

  “So you want me to figure out who they are?”

  “All I want is confirmation that they work here and the name of their supervisor. Then I can go through him to get their identity and they get their cash, maybe even a stupid plaque from the Superintendent that they can use to impress women at the bar.”

  Katounis wasn’t convinced. “No offence, but this sounds like total bullshit. I’m just saying.”

  Nastos glanced over to Carscadden, feeling embarrassed for trying such a pathetic ploy.

  Carscadden nodded his approval to him and he turned back to Katounis. “Okay. Well, we’re looking for two guys who could work here and they may have witnessed something that they are embarrassed to admit to. We want this to go away. And they might not even be cops anyways.”

  The phone began to ring but Katounis ignored it. “Okay, so what do they look like?”

  Carscadden slid a sheet of paper over with the descriptions for him to read. Nastos said, “Two guys. One white, five eight, 140, crewcut, the other black, six foot even, 190. They work together a lot. I guess in street crime, or some plainclothes unit?”

  Katounis was staring at the sheet, reading it over. “No shit,” he muttered to himself.

  Carscadden and Nastos exchanged glances. Carscadden asked, “They sound familiar?”

  “There’s a few hundred guys working out of this station. Street Crime — like you said — drug guys, Intel. These can only be two guys. Now I can’t give you their names but these two guys work together all the time. They may as well get married. And they are always getting involved in stuff. They even go looking for it on their days off.” Katounis leaned forward and typed into the computer screen. He found what he was looking for and wrote something down.

  “Here’s the name of their staff sergeant. Fraser. Maybe she can help you out.”

  “Fraser, when’s she in next?”

  “They’re on evenings tonight. Trust me, she’ll know exactly who you’re talking about. Some serious cases of rookie syndrome.”

  Carscadden asked, “So these guys are going to be in too?”

  “Yeah, they should be.”

  Nastos offered his hand to Katounis, who took it. “Thanks, officer. Hopefully your colleagues give you a cut of the action.”

  Katounis shook his head. “I don’t know what they were up to, I don’t know why you really want to talk to them, but if there’s cash involved I don’t want my name anywhere near it.”

  5

  Nastos sent a text message to Jacques, his old partner, keeping the phone in hand as he expected a quick reply. Midday traffic kept the streets busy. Carscadden turned onto Shaw Street passing Trinity Bellwoods Park. Nastos began scrolling through his ongoing conversation with Jacques but paused when he noticed that he could see between the trees to the Trinity Park Rec Centre where Walker had been shot to death. Kids were playing, elderly people were sitting on benches, life had barely paused for a few hours where Walker was photographed and taken out in a body bag to be burned with the other unclaimed dead. If there were monuments or roadside memorials where every person had died in Toronto there would be no room for the living.

  Carscadden asked, “How long’s it going to take for Jacques to get the ID for the two cops?”

  “He says less than an hour. He’s going to get their pictures and send them to us in a text with their addresses and other information.”

  “He trusts you. The trouble he could get in for giving you the information . . .”

  “He’s smart. He knows what he can get away with.”

  Carscadden moved into the right lane to avoid a left-turning vehicle. “Katounis said rookie syndrome. A lot of rookie cops are out killing people?”

  “Well, I doubt it started like that.” Nastos reached over and turned on the air conditioning. “Considering the thousands of mall cops, wannabes and general psychos that apply, I think we do a good job of weeding out the worst of them. I doubt even five percent are hiring mistakes but they wreak so much havoc. Cocky, flash the tin everywhere trying to get a deal, movie theatres, electronic stores, car dealerships. I’ve heard of guys wearing their police shirts while they drive around town, hoping people notice. Some drop the fact that they are a cop in every possible conversation, meet girls in bars and give them the police business card. Mostly it’s pathetic pleas for attention and approval. But some guys have it worse. Some guys watch drug houses on their days off and record licence plates to investigate when they’re back on duty. I’ve heard of guys writing tickets while they are off-duty. Nothing anywhere says you can’t, but holy shit, who could be bothered?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “These are the dweebs who make it through. Let’s remember that this is a small percentage, they usually don’t make it past probation, thank god.” Nastos shook his head and continued. “Sounds like our guys here have it bad. Maybe they were doing something like watching drug deals in the park but things took an ugly turn. If Falconer is in any way credible maybe they were doing a fake drug buy.”

  Carscadden chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I’m trying to remember any shootings with off-duty police involved. Can they carry their guns around when not at work?”

  “Some police services, OPP, Toronto, maybe some others can carry the work guns home if you have the safe and everything. But no. You don’t go banking or take the kids to daycare with it just to feel like a hotshot. These guys were doing about a million things wrong. About ten years ago a group of Peel cops got busted for doing violent home invasions. An OPP Tac Team once got disbanded for trashing a Native man’s house they were searching. I’ve even heard of a Toronto copper who killed his wife and buried her in the basement. But shooting a guy in a park during a drug rip-off? We should call Professional Standards and let them take it from here. Job done.”

  Carscadden took his phone out and checked the screen. “Umm. Hopkins says some guy just came into the office wanting to hire me for an impaired. There’s a quick five grand.” He put the phone away. “So what about the ID on Walker, then? What’s the point of doing that now?”

  Nastos didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure at first why he was bothering. “Well, we told Karen we would.” He pondered it more. “If we get the name, it would get her a good story. She might get some journa
lism award out of this.”

  Carscadden turned the radio down. “Could be good for business when she tells her boss at the paper that we did some of the background work. Might get the company name in print a few times commenting on cases. Hell, I could jack up my rates and start paying you a fair wage. You could afford to stop dressing like a chump and maybe buy yourself a stick or two of deodorant.”

  “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with this suit, it’s my birth certificate that’s the problem.”

  Carscadden parked tight to the curb in front of the Travel Lodge Motel on King Street. Carscadden exited the car, smoothing out his suit before running his fingers through his hair. Nastos opened the trunk and lifted out a small tool box that was his fingerprint kit. Clear tape, print cards, a few brushes and, among other things, metal filings, or “dust,” to spread around in case they found anything that Walker might have touched with his hands.

  Traffic was as busy as expected for two p.m., pedestrians fiddling with their iPods and BlackBerrys, TTC drivers slaloming their buses between cabs and stunned tourists. The hot city air bore the weight of car exhaust, this time accented by flavours of Polish street meat from a nearby vendor. They stood at the curb examining the building.

  It was a two-storey motel with the office at the west end of the building, a staircase, then two rows of identical windows and rooms. Red brick with a pinkish mortar, 1970s sliding Florida windows and slim green doors with the iron room numbers attached. Nastos could almost smell the mould. A group of Sri Lankan men were watching them from the balcony, leaning over the railing smoking. A Native woman walked by them, two kids in tow.