Mist Walker

by Barbara Fradkin

  Green did a quick mental check. Fraser’s neighbour Crystal had seen him leaving the apartment the previous Wednesday about noon, dressed as if for a business appointment. But it was obviously not with Bleustein. He waited for the lawyer to continue.

  “Yeah, he’d been collecting pages and pages of crap from books and off the internet about sexual abuse and psychopaths, and he’d put together this really insane theory about what happened, and about how someone was out to get him because he knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That’s what I kept asking him, but you could never cut to the chase with this guy. He took out all these photocopied pages and newspaper clippings, all covered in yellow highlighting, and he wanted to show me every little step along the way. He was talking a mile a minute, saying he knew they knew he knew, and if he didn’t put a stop to it, he’d be six feet under.”

  “You’re saying he thought someone was trying to kill him?”

  “The guy’s a head case, Green! I never thought for a moment there was any truth to it.”

  “Who did he figure was out to get him?”

  Bleustein hesitated, and again his conviction wavered. “He talked in riddles, like he thought the room was bugged or the phone was tapped. That’s all I figured this was—the crazy thoughts of a paranoid. I didn’t take the case. The guy looked pretty tapped out—the suit he was wearing had seen a good fifteen years’ service—and I didn’t want to be the one to take his last dime.”

  I’ll bet, thought Green. It wouldn’t go far towards keeping you in single-malt and Cuban cigars. No rich teachers’ union to bankroll you this time.

  “Of course not,” he replied, careful to rein in the sarcasm.

  “Anyway, I held my nose and defended the guy once, but to tell you the truth, I agree with the guys on the inside— pedophiles are the slime of the earth. So I packed all his crap back into his briefcase, told him if he had a complaint he should go to the police, and I turfed him out of the office.”

  “Well, he never came to us.”

  Bleustein shrugged. “I guess he and I shared one view in common.”

  “So who was he talking about?”

  “That I don’t think I should tell you. The guy was ranting and frankly, in my opinion he’s put enough people through enough grief already.”

  “Josh—”

  Bleustein held up his hands. “Hey listen, I’ve given you ten minutes more than you deserve. I’ll give you one more thing for free. I also told him if he knew something, he should take it to the Children’s Aid. So try them. They might give you more than I did.”

  Green’s pulse leaped. The Children’s Aid was the agency responsible for setting Fraser’s whole nightmare into motion in the first place! Had it been them Fraser had headed off to see at noon on Wednesday? What on earth would make him walk back into the lion’s den?

  “Thanks for the tip,” he replied, keeping the excitement out of his voice with an effort.

  Bleustein was already lowering himself back down onto his knees, and he acknowledged the thanks between grunts. “Now fuck off, before someone sees me actually talking to you.”

  * * *

  Thursday morning arrived with a deafening crack of thunder and a cloudburst of torrential rain under a charcoal sky. Cars slowed to a crawl, and pedestrians dashed recklessly from shelter to shelter, windblown and drenched. But Green’s spirits were still high when, at nine o’clock sharp, he presented himself to the main receptionist of the Children’s Aid Society and requested to see the Executive Director. It took George Kirkpatrick precisely two minutes to extricate himself from his morning staff meeting, scurry back down to his private office, and straighten himself up in preparation to receive him. Kirkpatrick was still buttoning his jacket as the receptionist escorted Green in, but his smile was firmly in place.

  “Inspector Green, is it?” he asked as he strode around his desk with his hand extended. His grip was firm but warm, as if he’d practised for years to convey just the right blend of authority and welcome. Today, however, the grip was slightly damp, and the smile looked ill-at-ease.

  Over the years, Green’s work in major crimes had brought him into periodic contact with the child protection agency, although fortunately not too often, for adults usually confined their killing, robbing and bludgeoning to one another. He’d never envied the agency its job of finding that fine line between the rights of a family to be together and the need to protect children from harm. And no one was ever satisfied. With its every action scrutinized and decried by one side or the other, with lawyers snapping at its heels, the CAS was always looking over its shoulder to watch its back, and the mere appearance of a high-ranking police officer would be enough to send anxiety levels through the roof. Kirkpatrick herded him nervously to one of the easy chairs grouped around a coffee table and perched himself on the one opposite as if it were a bed of nails.

  “How can I help you, Inspector?”

  Since his meeting with Bleustein the day before, Green had been pondering what approach to take. His visit actually had a dual purpose, and he wanted to ensure the atmosphere remained amicable enough to get the answers to both questions, each of which might send the agency into defensive retreat. For an agency which dealt with highly sensitive, confidential material and operated under a perpetual mood of siege, defensive retreat would almost be the automatic response.

  “Mr. Kirkpatrick,” Green began, “this is not an official visit. That is, I’m not investigating a crime in which any of your staff or clients are implicated, and I’m not here to question any of your agency’s decisions or activities. I need your help—your opinion, if you like—on a case I’m investigating, in order to make sure I’m not following the wrong path.”

  Kirkpatrick sat perfectly still, but a small pucker formed at the centre of his brow. He was clearly not reassured but rather waiting for the other shoe to drop. At that point, Green knew that only a head-on approach would work. Anything less, and the man would be looking for traps in Green’s every remark.

  “Do you remember the Matthew Fraser case? The teacher accused of molesting a six-year-old girl ten years ago?”

  Far from looking puzzled or thoughtful as if searching his memory, or simply agreeable as if the memory were at his fingertips, Kirkpatrick looked startled. He covered it quickly.

  “Certainly I do.”

  Green took an educated guess as to the cause of his surprise. “Mr. Fraser came to see you last week, I understand.”

  “No. No, he didn’t.”

  “I’m not trying to pry into confidential matters, but Matthew Fraser disappeared the day he came to see someone here at the agency, and he’s not been heard from since. It’s our belief that he may be the victim of foul play.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting someone at the agency—”

  Green shook his head. “But I believe he had some information he wanted to discuss with you, and that information may be important in determining what happened to him.” He explained about Fraser’s visit to Josh Bleustein and his request for a restraining order. “Mr. Fraser clearly felt in danger because of something he knew. So if you have any knowledge about what he thought or who he felt in danger from, please tell me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  It was said with regret rather than defiance, but Green still sensed the man was watching his step. Still protecting confidentiality, or something else?

  “Are you saying you didn’t hear from him at all?”

  “We heard from him, yes. That is, one of my workers did. Mr. Fraser phoned him some time last week. Just a minute, I’ll see if he’s in his office.” Kirkpatrick dialled an internal extension and asked the person who answered to drop by his office. As he hung up, he turned to Green with a smile. “You’re in luck. Jean-Paul Landriault is at his desk, and that’s rare. I was surprised that Mr. Fraser contacted him, of all people. JP was the worker on the case ten years ago, and he worked like the dickens to see Fraser put away
.”

  “You’re saying Mr. Fraser specifically asked for him?”

  “I don’t think he said no one else would do. He simply asked for JP, and JP was sufficiently intrigued to take him up on it.”

  “And what did he want?”

  “I’ll let JP tell you about it.” Kirkpatrick walked restlessly to the door to peek out into the hall. Green heard the clicking of heel studs against the hard tile, and a few seconds later, Kirkpatrick ushered his subordinate into the room.

  Jean-Paul Landriault could not have presented a greater contrast to his boss. He looked as if he’d just rolled into town on his Harley, his short, squat form decked out in black leather jacket, cowboy boots and skin-tight jeans, and his long, greying mane slicked back into a ponytail. His teeth were stained nicotine yellow, and one was chipped, creating a sinister impression. Green couldn’t help wondering what effect he had on the vulnerable, traumatized children he was meant to help.

  But all doubt vanished as soon as the man smiled. His grin reached from ear to ear, and his eyes crinkled almost shut with silent laughter. He had a gentle, friendly handshake and a deep, melodic voice with just a trace of a French accent.

  Green felt ludicrously prim in his sports jacket and tie, which branded him as just another featureless bureaucrat. He leaned casually back in the armchair and draped his arm over the top. No notebook, no officious fuss. A voice-activated tape recorded all his conversations for his own private reference, and the notebook’s importance was mainly for the official record. In this case, he suspected the social worker might speak more freely without an official record.

  “Mr. Landriault,” he began. “I’m concerned for a man’s safety, and I’m hoping you can help.” Quickly he outlined the facts, and Jean-Paul’s smile faded abruptly.

  “Matthew Fraser called me, certainly, and he made an appointment to see me...” He flipped open an over-stuffed pocket agenda, causing a cascade of loose bits of pink paper to float to the floor. Absently, he retrieved them and shoved them back between the pages. “Last Wednesday at two o’clock. But he didn’t arrive.”

  Crystal had observed Matthew Fraser leaving his apartment around noon, dressed as if for a formal appointment, so he had obviously intended to keep his meeting with JP.

  “Do you know why? Did he call to explain?”

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “I heard nothing. Lost his nerve, I imagine. I was surprised that he called me anyway, because he hated me. He thought I changed the little girl’s words and made her all mixed up, so it was my fault she made those accusations against him. Which was bullshit. Becky disclosed them first to the school psychologist, and it was a spontaneous disclosure. The woman wasn’t asking anything about that, just conducting a routine assessment, because Becky was having behaviour problems at school. Later, I had a female police officer right with me when I interviewed the child, but still Fraser thought I put the ideas into her head.” Jean-Paul flushed as if reliving the outrage, and his hand drifted to his jacket pocket, where Green could see him toying longingly with a pack of cigarettes. Then, catching Green’s eye, he grinned his merry smile again. “Like there’s not enough work, so I invent some.”

  “Last week, did he tell you why he wanted to see you?”

  Jean-Paul shook his head, but Green sensed he was withholding something. Surely, given the emotions of the case, Jean-Paul must have speculated. Green prodded him further, and Jean-Paul cast a quick, uncertain look at Kirkpatrick. The latter nodded.

  “Well, he’s still on the Ontario Child Abuse Register. Even when he was acquitted, we kept him on it, because we believed there was sufficient grounds. It’s not accessible to the public, but it can red flag him to us if his name appears in another investigation. He was perhaps trying to have his name removed, if he wanted to teach again or work with children again.”

  Green pondered the possibility, which didn’t seem enough to explain Fraser’s sense of urgency, for the man would have been on the register for ten years. He explained Josh Bleustein’s idea that Matt Fraser feared for his own safety. “Did he mention anything about that?”

  “He just said he could not talk over the phone, and he would not meet me at the office here either. Asked me to take Rebecca Whelan’s file and meet him on a park bench some place, for Christ’s sake. That was too bizarre for me, so I said it was here or nowhere.”

  “When did he make this call?”

  Jean-Paul pawed through a pile of crumpled pink telephone slips. Finally, he freed one and unfolded it. “Monday afternoon. Pretty short notice, actually. I had to put him into my lunch hour, and after all that the little prick doesn’t show up.”

  “Did you try calling him back?”

  Jean-Paul’s jaw tightened, and without his smile, the sinister look returned. “He did not give me a number. Anyway, I was just happy to let the whole affair disappear. The girl’s family’s been through hell because of what he did, and their lives have been messed up forever. Rebecca—” he sliced the air in angry finality, “damaged forever. The parents’ marriage almost fell apart, the mother’s a closet alcoholic, the brother is in and out of drug programs. They don’t deserve to have this guy bring everything all back again.”

  “Do you think that’s what he was going to do?”

  “What other reason would he ask me to bring the file? I told him no way I would discuss Rebecca’s file with him. He said I didn’t have to talk, just listen.”

  “Listen to what?”

  A dull red crept up Jean-Paul’s neck. “I told you I don’t know. He sounded very paranoid, and when I saw him, he was running down the street clutching his briefcase—”

  “Wait a minute. You actually saw him?”

  “Through the window. My office looks on the street, and I had a quick look of him down the street. Like I said, taking off.”

  “Towards this building?”

  Jean-Paul shook his head. “In the goddamn opposite direction. Freaked out of his mind, like he had an army of Hells Angels on his ass.”

  Seven

  With his windshield wipers flapping and his CD player belting out The Tragically Hip over the drumbeat of the rain, Green was half way back to the station before he realized the significance of Jean-Paul’s remark.

  “Clutching his briefcase!” he said aloud and struck his forehead in amazement. How could he have missed something so obvious? Bleustein had mentioned the briefcase too, saying Matt Fraser had arrived at his office with a briefcase stuffed with clippings and notes. Even Crystal had mentioned it when she described her glimpse of the man heading out of the apartment that last day, dressed in a suit, carrying a briefcase and hustling purposefully as if he had an appointment.

  Yet Green was certain there had been no briefcase at Fraser’s apartment when he’d searched it. No briefcase, no personal papers, nothing remotely like the clippings Bleustein had described.

  When Green reached the squad room, he was relieved to see Sullivan at his desk, poring over a computer screen of tattoos again. The big detective had perched a pair of halfmoon glasses on the bridge of his nose, and the effect— professorial truck driver—made Green burst out laughing. Sullivan scowled at him red-eyed over the rims.

  “Your time will come, Green. Spend hours staring at these damn screens, and you’ll be down at the drugstore yourself soon enough.”

  “That’s why I avoid paperwork like the plague. What are you bothering for? You should be tracking the victim’s recent movements. You have a likely ID on the body, and all we need to do now is wait for the dental results.”

  Sullivan rubbed his eyes. “Just cross-referencing. The Iraqi’s ID was a little shaky, and there’s no mention on Fraser’s file about a tattoo.”

  “The info in his file is all ten years out of date, though. By the way, you go to the autopsy?”

  Sullivan pulled a face. “Ident did. I figured it wasn’t necessary, and I wasn’t keen to watch this one.”

  “Don’t like your bodies crispy?”

  “You should
talk!”

  “True.” Green rarely survived an entire autopsy without losing his last meal. “Did you get his report?”

  “MacPhail was backed up, and in a bear of a mood. I’ll call later.”

  “When you do reach MacPhail, let me know what he says.” Green’s eyes drifted to the screen of girlish tattoos. Pretty ringlets of all description. “Tell me, was there a briefcase among the victim’s effects in the rooming house?”

  “Briefcase?” Sullivan arched his brows in surprise. “He didn’t even have a wallet or jacket. Nothing but a bottle of scotch and the clothes on his back, which were completely burnt, of course. So unless someone stole his stuff, he came to the rooming house completely empty-handed.”

  Green pondered the information. Even homeless people acquired belongings—their own favourite blanket, an old hat to ward off the night chill, knick-knacks plucked from garbage cans, a cherished magazine or grimy deck of cards. If Fraser had checked into the rooming house to hide out for a week, surely he would have brought something, if only a toothbrush and a pair of clean underwear. Fraser’s toothbrush was still sitting by his bathroom sink.

  “Did the Iraqi say when Fraser rented the room?”

  Sullivan flipped through his notebook. “He thinks last Wednesday. They don’t keep good records, that way they can slip a few bucks past the tax man, but I think I scared him enough that he gave up Wednesday.”

  “Time of day?”

  “That he was clearer on. Five o’clock, just at the peak of rush hour.”

  Green frowned to himself as he tried to make sense of the time sequence. Fraser must have booked the room before Crystal spotted him returning to his apartment. Presumably he’d gone home afterwards to pack and take care of his dog, which might explain why he no longer had the briefcase when he was found in the fire. Yet back at his apartment, something had obviously interrupted him before he could get ready.