Gritty

by Colleen Baxter Sullivan

  Gritty

  Colleen Baxter Sullivan

  Published by Waldorf Publishing

  2140 Hall Johnson Road

  #102-345

  Grapevine, Texas 76051

  www.WaldorfPublishing.com

  Gritty:

  Will Justice Be Found For This Homeless Man Living on the Streets of Montreal?

  The Adam Garwood Detective Series. Book 2

  ISBN: 978-1-944784-46-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016957064

  Copyright © 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Dedication

  I would like to dedicate this book to my brother Glenn Baxter. He has always been my greatest role model. Although younger in age, his strength of character, especially this year fighting cancer, has shown me that the human spirit has no limits, especially when powered by love.

  To know that someone has your back constantly and loves you unconditionally makes Glenn my living testament of what family is all about.

  I love you Glenn and thank you for your absolute love.

  Prologue

  I had the strangest premonition when I went to bed, that I would wake up to this prolific outcome. I’d refrain from performing my customary ritual, lingering at the table with coffee and newspaper, a ritual that I relished in this first hour of being up. I knew this was by far an ordinary day. I hurried to shower and dress, for no apparent reason, other than my gut was telling me to. And sure enough, as I was about to shave, the phone rang.

  “Marc, I was expecting your call. I couldn’t sleep; I had this unsettling feeling. No, I’m alright. Really! I’ll be there as soon as possible. Yes, I’m on my way.”

  My gut feeling became a reality! The police had dragged the Lachine canal and pulled out a body. Marc believed it had been there for quite some time, therefore, identification might be tricky. I decided to stop at Tim’s and get a coffee and muffin. What was five minutes out of my way, when I knew I’d probably be there all day! I would need all the energy that I could muster up. I was relieved Richard was away on business, because any delay might be detrimental to the case. He always wanted to know the whys and wherefores and it had to be at the precise moment of disclosure; I did not have time to go into the petty details. I had to find out the answers for myself first, based on facts.

  As I pulled up Marc ran toward me and I noticed the forensic van was already there. “Adam I’m glad you’re here! The body is hardly recognizable. It looks as if some animal has been at it. Do you want to take a closer look?” he asked enthusiastically. “Do you think it’s him?”

  “Sure,” I said not relishing what I was about to see. Hopefully the muffin would stay down. In all the years that I have been an investigator, I still found it extremely difficult to view modified corpses and not have the urge to vomit. Some were in horrific condition; especially the decomposed ones or the others that animals had chosen to have a feast on. The bodies which were identified shortly after death usually had the marks of brutal association upon them, with trails of blood and bruised flesh. Either way it was not a pretty sight having to label these subjects of death. I inhaled and followed Marc to the spot.

  Nothing seemed to faze him. He walked over to the body as if taking a stroll through the park. He was the Sergeant in charge of homicide, working out of the main headquarters in downtown Montreal. He was good at what he did. Marc and I were friends. I first met him years prior to this on a gay cruise with Richard. Although, not typically fitting the profile, Marc was a closet gay, convincing himself that the rest of the precinct did not notice. He was a huge man of burley build with the character of a tough and rugged truck driver. He thought with this disposition, no one would be the wiser for it, but once gay, it was very hard to hide. I am sure the men at the precinct went along with his life’s camouflage, and rather than let on, they had no desire to question. He was good at his job and that was all that mattered. He would help anyone in need, sometimes going far and beyond the call of duty. He had become a great friend and I used his influence and inside information to wrap up many of my cases.

  I approached slowly. They pulled back the cover concealing the body; I jumped in horror. There wasn’t much left of any human remains… very little flesh, a mangled bone structure with maggots and debris competing for their place. There were some particles of clothing still wrapped around certain parts of its cadaverous state.

  “Marc, you said you dragged the canal, but I see a lot of maggots still reveling on the decomposing body. Don’t maggots usually feast on fresh corpses?”

  “We dragged the canal but actually found the body closer to shore. It looks as if some wild animals might have performed the obvious, and as long as there is some flesh left; you will find maggots.”

  “How close can you pinpoint the time of death?” I asked with concern.

  Marc went over to Susan, the forensic expert, and repeated my question. She looked at the subject and let it be known that it was only an estimate. The body would have to go back to the lab for further testing.

  He returned. “She thinks the time of death was perhaps two to three weeks ago, although she is vague on this assumption. Does that help you at all Adam?”

  “It sure does. That was about the time that I last saw him. I’m not completely certain that it’s him though. Let me have one more look. Are you sure about the time of death? The maggots are having a field day. Doesn’t the forensic team tell the time of death based on testing the maggots?”

  “Yes, when the body is taken back to the lab, the forensic entomologists will have a more precise answer. They will study the insects found on the corpse and determine the exact time of death based on their composition. The entomologists can tell whether the body has been moved from one location to another or even if animals have disturbed it. The main procedure by the forensic entomology department is to determine the closest time of death.”

  “Wow, Marc you know your stuff!” I said with indulging admiration.

  “Adam, I’ve been at this job for a long time. This is just one of many!”

  “So, I’m not sure how it’s done. You say they test the maggots!”

  “Yes that’s right,” he answered. “The determination of maggot age and development gives an accurate date of death within a day or less. Maggots are larvae with immature stages of Dipteral like two-winged flies. These insects are the first to appear on the corpse, Calliphoridae or blowflies. These are the flies that appear on a corpse immediately after death. It is pretty remarkable how this is all determined,” said Marc, knowing that he was impressing me with his knowledge.

  I went over to the body to take a closer look and then I saw it. “Marc, come here. Look!” I said pointing to the body.

  “Adam, you’re good. I didn’t even notice. This is too much of a coincidence; it must be him. So does this mean the case is over? It’s quite obvious, right?”

  “Yes, it would be a no-brainer. But that is not accurate enough. It definitely will be of help in solving the identification process, but this means the case has just begun,” I said.

&nb
sp; “Adam, the guy was a bum. Who cares?”

  I looked over in disbelief. “Marc, he was still a human being. I would hope that you’d have more empathy.” My blood pressure was rising by the second. How dare Marc be so judgmental!

  “Yes, you’re right! I’m sorry for that stupid remark. I’ve been up most of the night. I’m tired. Let me know if I can help you with your investigation. I will forward the autopsy results to you when I receive them.”

  I left the site feeling somewhat relieved, although I was hoping to find him alive, maybe sheltering himself in some boxlike contraption, nesting in a back street alley or as the French would say ruelle. Even though I hated him; I felt sad at his demise. If alive, he would have been thrilled because I had no choice but to take on his case.

  In death he had won.

  Chapter One

  My name is Adam Garwood and I’m a private investigator. I can’t say that I’m the best private eye in town, but I do regard myself as the most colourful. My client list is far from being long. It is circumstantially an odd combination of personalities uniquely identified within the boundaries of the Plateau, that being the area in Montreal where I have set up my practice. People are not sure what to expect of me. I am listed in the yellow pages with all the other PIs, but when people come to visit, they are compelled to take a second look.

  You enter my office building, which by the way, is a bright shade of yellow clapboard. On all three levels, the building is adorned with green shutters. I have added multi-coloured flower boxes which don seasonal displays. In the fall I remove the real flowers and replace them with plastic replicas. I know it might seem a bit tawdry but unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, that describes me in a nutshell. The building oddly enough fits into the scheme of the surrounding brick structures. My office is on the third floor, and I rent out the two lower ones. A small production company occupies the first and the second a catering service. The rent I receive compensates for my lack of clientele.

  I graduated from McGill University – Faculty of Law, receiving marks of top distinction. I speak perfect French. Both my parents were of French descent, my ancestry being strong Quebecois. The name Garwood comes from my great grandfather who came from England, but on my mother’s side we are all Desjardins’. I love the fact that I can switch easily between the two dialects. It is a definite asset in my line of work.

  * * * *

  I met Gritty a year ago. It was on one of those wonderful summer evenings in Montreal. I decided after a great meal on boulevard Rene Levesque, to take a shortcut through a back alley leading to rue Sainte Catherine. I was meeting up with friends for drinks and did not want to walk the long way around. Having been warned several times about my ruelle jaunts, especially in the gay village, I determined from the brightness of the sky and the speed of my step, that my conclusion would have a safe outcome. It would save me twenty minutes or so and I was late as it was.

  Although some of these passageways are narrow enough to be classified as an alley; many have street names because vehicles can go down them. Rue Dalcourt was one of those with its trendy small garden flats, and winding stairwells leading to mysterious inhabitants and unconventional life styles. Most of the buildings were gated, appearing to be closed off from the rest of the world. Whether it was the heat of summer or the absence of its vacationing residents, on that particular day, there was an overwhelming amount of unpleasantness: overbearing smell of urine, tossed fast food cartons, empty liquor bottles, used condoms, discarded needles and paraphernalia of its previous denizens. Cats were feasting on what little crumbs they could find and the occasional mouse was scurrying in self-preservation. Looking around I could see I was alone. Dalcourt’s less revered occupants were probably out scrounging the streets while the remaining daylight provided aid. It was the high season for Montreal’s tourist trade so the pickings were plentiful.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the entrance to rue Sainte Catherine. My escapade was nearing its end. I questioned myself on the worth of this shortcut as I tried to calm my irregular heartbeat. It brought back vivid memories of another time. How could I forget being a young boy scared out of my wits, taunted and challenged by the bullies and then being forced to act out for them: eating worms, stealing candy, soaping cars, turning over garbage cans and many other feats. This was a guaranteed trade-off to survive in the straight world. Despite the fact that I did not reveal my preference of choice in those early years; it became very apparent to my male contemporaries. I was gay and although never announced, my facade was very evident amongst my peers.

  I was nearing my exit when I noticed something. Was that a movement I saw? There were boxes lined up against the brick walls but the one closest to me seemed to vibrate. I must have had too much to drink. I quickened my steps and reached the street. I could hear a call for help and my immediate reaction was to turn. Don’t look back; keep going. The gaiety of the street people was beckoning me forward but the desperation of the call was like a magnetic force drawing me back. No, you must not go. Whether it was the instinctive need to help or my insane curiosity; I went back. This was when I first met Gritty, the man who is now being removed from the Lachine canal. Although this might be an early supposition on my part.

  “Is someone there?” I approached with caution. I realized that I was near the exit to the street, therefore my risk factor was at a low. Also, I was standing and he was lying down, he was at a disadvantage and I knew if I had to, I could run. “Are you in there?” I kept repeating and then I bent down to get a better look. Big mistake! A hand reached out and grabbed my shirt. I screamed in horror as I was being pulled down to his level.

  “Please, I won’t hurt you. Please help me up.” He released me and I noticed that he had a cleft hand or lobster claw as the neighbourhood children used to call it. Although cruel in thought, the horrific circumstances of that first meeting and his pathetic appearance made the desire to help even more prevalent. He pushed his body forward, out of his home… the box, and with great difficulty tried to stand. For whatever reason I gestured that he stay and I crouched down to his level. He was hardly able to move. He was weak with hunger. I couldn’t leave him that way. I told him to stay put; I would return with some food. He nodded in compliance. At that moment I knew my meeting up with friends held very little importance compared to this new turn of events. I felt little remorse as I called and cancelled my plans. I did not even give my respondent a chance to reply. I hung up abruptly. Turning the corner, I saw a sandwich shop and asked them to brown bag a ham and cheese, milk and a large muffin. My heart was pounding but this time only in survival mode… his survival. There was a peculiar attraction drawing me towards him.

  When I returned he was sitting up with back against the brick wall. I got a full view. He was taller than I imagined. He must have had a hard time manipulating his large frame to fit into his temporary lodgings. He looked to be in his late 60s, but with his grungy appearance it was hard to tell. He was bald and had the most perfectly shaped round head. This accentuated his pale blue eyes. I’ve never been so mesmerized with eyes, but his were sky blue with a deeper shade of blue competing for attention. They were hypnotic and I could not stop looking at them.

  I was sure that when cleaned up, he would be an exceptionally handsome man. I could not help but feel the depth of his plight, binding us together, forming this human link. What was it about him that drew me in? Surely it was more than his eyes. He accepted the bagged lunch with a gentleman’s touch. Knowing his need, he could have grabbed at it, but no; he waited to be served. “Thank you,” he said. Hearing his voice made me aware that he was not your regular street dweller. I let him eat but observed enough to realize my curiosity had to be satisfied. He finished and breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t imagine not knowing where your next meal was coming from.

  I felt the need to question…to talk. “What is your name?” I queried.

  “Grenville
,” he replied. “But most folks call me Gritty.”

  “Grenville, isn’t that the name of a town?”

  “Yes it is,” he said. “I was born in Grenville and my parents were too lazy to give me a proper name; they just named me after the town.”

  Already I felt empathy for him. What parents name their kid after the town that they live in! Looks like he had a shit life from the get-go. I wanted to keep the lines of communication open. I continued. “Where is Grenville? Isn’t that up north somewhere?”

  “Not really! It is closer to the Ottawa area. Not too far from Lachute.”

  I could not believe that I was having this conversation. He spoke as if he were a man of education. There was a hint of an accent. I wanted to say British but was not completely sure. His speech was impeccable with such a velvety tone, echoing and being absorbed by me, causing a tingling sensation throughout my body. It was as if we were long lost friends sitting in some diner having a chat over a cup of coffee. My awkward position, with bent knees resting on ankles, in order not to touch the ground, was cramping my legs. I wanted to be at his level but in no way was I going to succumb to sitting on filth. Wanting to continue the conversation, I said, “I’ve never been to Grenville, but I have heard the name before.”

  “You’re not missing anything. You wouldn’t have a smoke, would you?” he asked.

  “No sorry, don’t smoke. Gave that up a long time ago.”

  I ventured further. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, are you a cop?”

  “No. You seem so well spoken; you don’t belong here. You are definitely educated. What gives?”

  Before he could answer the other dwellers of the alley started to return. With that, Gritty took on another character. “Fuck off man. Leave me alone,” he said looking directly at me.

  I was taken by surprise as if I had just been kicked in the stomach. What happened? The others circled; I felt threatened. Gritty remained loyal to a point and told them to leave me alone. He looked at me knowingly. I realized then that he was only trying to protect me by pretending to be one of them. Survival… no matter at what cost! Taking his lead, I got up and left. I looked at my watch and wondered where the last couple of hours had gone. I wanted to learn more about Gritty and the conditions that pressured him into living there. I could see that he was a smart man. Something terrible, some crazy set of circumstances must have caused this state of despair. He was not like the rest of them. He deserved better. I was brought back to reality by my cell vibrating.