by Ben Follows
Despite Norman’s words, there was none of the anger and malice that had accompanied his words at the restaurant.
“I know,” said Robin, “but you’re my only option. My brother was killed, and his murderer is out there somewhere. I need your help if I want to get justice.”
There was a long pause, then Norman said, “If a single word of this ends up in the press, I’m taking your money and quitting the case.” He paused and then added, “Also, I’m charging double my regular rate.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Great,” said Norman. “Meet me in an hour at the same breakfast place we were at before. I’m starving.”
Chapter 4
Norman chowed down on a hefty helping of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and fruit. Robin sat across from him, spinning her spoon through her oatmeal.
When Norman finally finished his food and they had ordered hot drinks, he took out his notepad. He looked up at Robin. “Tell me everything about Joel.”
Robin nodded. “He was about six years younger than me, so we were never in the same schools. There was never any animosity between us, but we were different. When I was in high school, I was the editor of the school paper, captain of the debate team, and a member of the Model UN Club. Joel was a hockey player, although he never really fit into the stereotype of hockey player that I’ve heard so often. He was kind and caring, stood up for the weak and defenseless, and refused to back down from anything. I know people who played sports for the camaraderie, the parties, or the girls. Joel was the star player, and he played so he could get into a good university. He had explicitly stated that as his goal from the start.”
Norman made a note. “Did you stay in contact with him while you were at university?”
“No more than any other brother and sister,” she said. “I was the head of the student paper and the feminist society, so I was busy. He was busy with hockey. He became an alternate captain his junior year of high school. He had a few big colleges interested.”
“What schools?”
“Boston University was the big one.”
Norman raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“He was good.”
“What happened?”
Robin sighed. “In the first game of his junior year, less than six minutes into the first period, he got tripped on a breakaway and slid into the post left foot first. He shattered his knee and had to be stretchered off the ice. I made the mistake of watching the video of it. You can see his leg bend in a way it never should.”
Norman nodded. “I’ve seen a few nasty breaks in my day. Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
“Anyway,” said Robin, taking a sip of her tea before continuing, “he was put in a full leg cast and told not to do much physical activity for six to eight weeks. That meant that about half his junior season was gone. It was difficult for him to move, and he missed all the team trips. He didn’t really have any friends outside that team, so his mental health started deteriorating. He insisted he was fine, but I wanted him to see a therapist to discuss possible depression symptoms. When I suggested that, he told me to get out of his room.”
Norman made a note. “That’s why people think he killed himself?”
Robin nodded. “He was on a lot of painkillers. They found the bottle next to him. It was completely empty, even though he’d had it refilled just a few days earlier. He was on the bathroom floor covered in drool. That was how I found him.”
“Take a second if you need it,” said Norman.
“Thanks.” Robin looked away and out the window at the snowfall and wiped her eyes. After a long moment, she looked back at Norman.
“Why don’t you think he killed himself?”
Robin shrugged. “Besides the fact that I heard someone walking around up there, you mean? He was only two weeks away from getting back on his skates. He was still attending all the home games and was in the change room before and after each game. He was so close to being better. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Was there a note?”
“No.”
“So it could have been accidental?”
Robin shook her head. “The police said they considered that and ruled it out. He was only supposed to be taking two pills at a time. The equivalent of thirty-five pills were found in his system during the autopsy. That isn’t accidental. The police said it must have been a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“Was there any indication of forced entry?”
“No.”
Norman nodded. “I’ll get started as soon as possible. I’ll need to speak with the other members of your family. The rate is double my normal price. Is that understood?”
Robin hesitated for a long moment, then swallowed. The price tag would eat up a good chunk of her savings, but she didn’t have a choice. “Alright,” she said. “There is one other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
Norman raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
Robin pushed back her shoulders and tried to look as confident as possible. “I want to be more involved in your investigation. I want to help.”
Norman shook his head. “I’m sorry. With you being a journalist and all, I can’t. I’m sure you understand.” He stood and dropped some money on the table. “Let’s see what I can find about Joel.”
Chapter 5
Norman leaned over the railing of his condo and looked over Toronto. A few dogs stood a few feet away, relieving themselves on the patches of artificial grass below the snow.
Sometimes he wondered why he had come back. He loved the city, but it was a city that loved hockey and hockey players. The local team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, were infused into the culture of the city and had been for almost a century. Hockey players were celebrities in Toronto.
In Dallas, none of that had been a problem. Even as his face had been plastered across Canadian media amid his steroid scandal, he had been little more than a footnote on the Dallas news.
He had come back to Toronto, just a half-hour drive from where he had grown up in Milton, and all of a sudden he had been infamous. Media had surrounded his condo and hounded him every moment of the day. People had scowled at him on the street and taken distant photos.
As much as he hated to admit it, part of him loved the attention.
Julia came, stood beside him, and leaned her head onto his shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“I don’t know,” said Norman. He checked his watch. “I’m going to go meet with Vince and get the police report.”
Norman turned and walked away. Julia watched him go.
He walked through the apartment, and all the dogs looked up at him. He patted a few of them on the head and scratched behind their ears before leaving the condo.
He drove a dozen blocks north to a dilapidated warehouse that an onlooker would think had been abandoned a long time ago.
He parked and walked around the back of the warehouse, where it looked the same except for the state-of-the-art security system set up around a rusting door. He knocked three times and looked up at the camera above the door.
A voice came over the intercom. “What do you want?”
“I need a police report.”
“Norman?” said the voice.
“I’m in front of the camera.”
The voice laughed. “That camera isn’t real. Come on in.”
The door clicked open, and Norman stepped inside. Once he was inside, any false impression of the building being abandoned disappeared. The inside it was well-furnished and immaculate, with tile floors and paintings lining the walls. He walked down the hall and opened a door on the right.
Inside the room was a recording booth. Vince was sitting at the mixing table. He held up a finger to indicate that he wasn’t ready just yet. He was a thin man with a bit of a beer gut. He wore a white t-shirt and large headphones.
Norman closed the door and leaned against the wall inside the booth. On the other side of the
glass was a young band playing a song he could barely hear, but based on their style he was guessing it was rock. There were two guys, singing and playing guitar respectively, and a girl on the drums. Norman guessed they were in high school.
Vince was nodding his head along, although he didn’t seem enthused. He was all business.
A few minutes later, the recording session ended and Vince shot the band a thumbs-up before removing the headphones. The band members walked out of room and shook his hand, thanking him. They glanced at Norman as though they recognized him but didn’t know exactly why. They walked past without saying anything.
Once the door was closed, Vince leaned back in his seat and looked up at Norman.
“What can I do for you, Norman?”
“I need a police report.”
Vince thought for a long moment. “I can’t keep getting stuff for you, Norman. I’m not a cop anymore.”
“I know,” said Norman, looking around at the impressive setup. Vince had purchased the warehouse after quitting his job as a police officer to pursue his dream of producing music and making his own album. “I need your help.”
Vince sighed and grabbed a pad of paper from the side table. “What do you need?”
Norman recounted exactly what Robin had told him while Vince took down notes. Once he was finished, Vince said, “I can probably get you a copy.”
“Thanks. How’s the music going?”
Vince shrugged. “It’s going. That’s really all I can say. Just give it enough time and something will fall into place.”
“How about the kids? How are they?”
“They’re terrible,” said Vince. “The band’s name is ‘Pocket Change.’ They paid me to use my recording studio and record a demo tape. I doubt they’re going anywhere.”
“That’s too bad,” said Norman.
Vince looked down at his notes. “Huh, that's interesting. The members of Pocket Change go to the same high school as your suicide victim. Want me to get them back in here so you can ask them a few questions?”
Norman shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”
“They’ll be packing up their gear. I’ll be right back.”
Vince left and returned a few minutes later with the three band members.
They took seats across from Norman and leaned back in their seats, looking nervous. Vince introduced them one at a time. Damien, the lead singer, had shoulder-length hair and pretty-boy good looks. He had a confidence Norman had only ever seen in over-achieving high-schoolers. Meghan, the drummer, casually leaned back in her chair, pushing her brunette hair out of her face. Sam, the guitarist, stared at the ground, his unkempt hair falling over his eyes.
“What do you need to know?” said Damien. “You’re Norman Green, right? That hockey player who took the steroids?”
Norman avoided the question. “I’m working as a private investigator, and I’ve been hired to look into the death of Joel Sweetwater. Do you three know anything about that?”
Meghan looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Sam looked away, but Damien jumped right in.
“Yeah,” he said. “He was an asshole. What do you want to know?”
“Why do you say he’s an asshole?” said Norman.
Damien shrugged. “He always rubbed me the wrong way. He never had time for anyone not involved with that hockey team.”
“I don’t think so,” said Meghan, turning toward him. “He was a nice guy. He was in my biology class.”
Damien scoffed. “He offed himself. Clearly had some issues.”
“You don’t know that,” said Meghan.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” said Damien. “He was a coward who offed himself because he couldn’t play hockey anymore.”
“Okay,” said Norman, stopping the conversation before it got off the rails. “Everyone will get their turn to speak. Meghan, what do you think happened?”
Meghan shrugged. “I was never close with Joel. We sat a few seats apart in biology, but that was it. He wasn’t there often. He was always off at some tournament. I was his partner for a project once, and I ended up doing the entire thing because he had to travel to Florida for a tournament. I remember being really irritated about it.”
“See?” said Damien. “He was a dick.”
“Let me finish,” said Meghan forcefully. “Is that okay with you, your fucking majesty?”
“Sure, whatever,” said Damien. “Do whatever you want.”
Meghan glared at him for a moment, and Norman felt as though he could see their band tearing apart at the seams. Beside them, Sam stared at the records on the wall. Vince leaned against the wall behind beside the door.
“I think there was something wrong with him,” said Meghan, turning back to Norman. “He had some serious undiagnosed depression of something. I’ve been taking a psychology class—”
“Oh God,” said Damien. “Here we go again with the psychology.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Meghan. “I know what I’m talking about.”
Damien shook his head at Norman.
“Anyway,” said Meghan. “He didn’t strike me as someone who killed himself, unless there was something wrong with him mentally.”
Damien raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s your big diagnosis? Why don’t you get a little more vague?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay,” said Norman, holding up two hands. “Let’s just calm down a bit. What about you, Sam? What do you think?”
Sam looked up at Norman and shrugged. “I don’t know anything.”
Norman looked at Sam for a moment. “Is there anything else you kids can tell me about Joel?”
None of them did. The three members of Pocket Change stood and walked out of the room.
Once they were gone, Vince promised to get Norman the police report on Joel’s death.
Norman shook his hand and thanked him then walked out of the building. He looked back at the dilapidated warehouse where the studio was located and smiled. There was something amazing about what Vince had accomplished in the pursuit of his dreams.
Chapter 6
The police report on the death of Joel Sweetwater was basic and succinct. The investigation and autopsy had revealed no signs of foul play. There were no signs of forced entry or Joel being forced to take the pills against his will.
The only suspects the police had investigated were family members: Robin, her younger sister Amelia, and their parents. None had been investigated beyond preliminary investigations.
It had taken less than twenty-four hours for Vince to procure the report, despite his claims he no longer had the connections.
Norman had spent the day researching Joel Sweetwater and his hockey career. He’d been good but not quite a superstar. He was constantly talked about as a student athlete who had been on the honor roll every year of high school.
Norman leaned back in his desk chair and looked around the condo. Unless his business started picking up soon or he got some big clients, he would need to find cheaper living arrangements. He looked out the window. It was dark outside, and Julia had gone to bed an hour earlier. A light snow fell.
The dogs perked up from where they were scattered around the living room. Somehow Julia managed to keep the shedding to a reasonable level and the furniture free from pet hair. How she did it, Norman had never been able to figure out.
He took a deep breath. He had been going through the police report with a fine-tooth comb for four hours. He needed to get out of the apartment and clear his head.
He petted a few of the dogs on the head. He was about to leave the condo when one of the dogs nudged at his legs. He turned back and saw Teddy, the first dog he had adopted, looking up at him. The Rottweiler sat back on his haunches and looked pleadingly up at Norman.
Norman smirked. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll grab a leash.”
A few moments later, Norman walked out of the condo, Teddy following a foot behind with a loose leash hanging from his collar. The dog looked frequently
up at Norman, as though making sure he was still there and safe.
They left the building and walked down the street. Norman couldn’t help but feel like he was being watched. He tried to ignore it.
He and Teddy walked onto a dark Toronto street in the direction of the CN Tower, which towered over the surrounding office buildings. There was something about the quiet serenity of a city at night, busy yet tranquil, that Norman had always found relaxing and interesting.
They walked through a park, where Teddy relieved himself on a tree. They headed back toward the condo building. Just as they were turning the last corner, Teddy began barking wildly and refused to go any farther.
“Come on, Teddy!” said Norman. “We need to go!”
An arm suddenly grabbed Norman from behind, cutting off his breathing. He gasped and tried to bite at the gloved hand as Teddy continued barking but didn’t attack.
Norman tried to fight off his attacker by throwing his elbow backward, but his hands were twisted behind him and he was shoved to the ground.
He hit the ground and looked up, struggling. There was a man clothed in black taking tentative steps toward Teddy.
Teddy barked wildly, backing away from the man. When the man was within a few feet of the dog, Teddy turned and ran, sprinting across the empty street and into the park on the other side, dragging his leash behind him.
Norman wanted to shout out after the dog, but his head was ringing and he wasn’t able to make the words.
The man began to walk across the street. Norman saw the distinct impression of a gun under his jacket.
“Let it go!” shouted the man whose knee was digging into Norman’s back. “The dog doesn’t matter.”
The man looked into the trees for a few seconds before turning and walking back toward Norman.
The man with his knee in Norman’s back wrenched him to his feet. Norman felt the barrel of a gun pushed into his back.
“Scream and I’ll kill you,” said the man. “Understand?”
Norman nodded. In his three years of working as a private detective, he’d never had a gun pulled on him, let alone by an unknown attacker in the dead of night.