Going Out With a Bang

by Joan Boswell

  “Yeah, but that was more than a few years ago.” Oops, look how he’d changed the subject back to me. “So your education prepared you to work for the John Howard Society?”

  I’d lost his attention. Frank was staring over my shoulder to the far side of the diner.

  “Earth to Frank.”

  “Oh, sorry. Thought I recognized someone.”

  The arrival of two humungous plates brought our thoughts back to the table. I waited until Frank forked in clumps of poutine and laid waste to half his burger—which didn’t take long. I took a copy of the e-mail from my purse and slid it across the table upside down so he could read it.

  A look of bewilderment crossed his face. I waited for his explanation.

  He started choking, his face reddened then paled. I pushed a glass of water his way. He knocked it over, clutching for his throat. Frank gasped for air.

  Before I could slide off my bench to get to him, a man was at Frank’s side.

  The rescuer grabbed him around the neck with one arm and used his other to haul my date out of the booth by his belt.

  “Hey! Back off, that’s not the way you do the Heimlich!” Frank’s face was turning a dusky shade of blue.

  I grabbed Frank just below his diaphragm, knit my fists together and heaved toward his spine with all my might. A glob of cheese curds flew out of his mouth and onto the chest of...George Bowman.

  Bowman flicked the offending food back in Frank’s direction. “Quite the gentleman, huh?” A smirk cut across his weather-beaten face.

  The diner’s manager was all over us like a grease on a griddle, anxious to avoid a lawsuit. Frank didn’t feel much like eating any more. My appetite had dampened, too, but I asked for my shake to go.

  “I see George around the neighbourhood a lot,” Frank said, as I helped him into the passenger seat of my car. “Do you think he lives nearby?”

  “He strikes me as a suburban guy. But the police station is just down the street. Remind me to ask Bowman where he learned his emergency services training.”

  A cell phone trilled, and before I could find mine, Frank was speaking.

  “Hello?” He sounded surprised and curious. “Yes. Okay. All right. Sure, Ruth.”

  “Ruth? Ruth, who?” It’s difficult to put your hands on your hips for emphasis when both were required on the steering wheel.

  “Ruth Kuhn,” Frank said.

  Frank didn’t seem the least bit clued into my curiosity. I elbowed him. Confusion met my chilly stare. “From St. Timothy’s, remember? Could you drop me off there instead of home?”

  I bit my tongue, gunned the engine, made an illegal U-turn and headed north on Elgin. He wasn’t well enough to finish a dinner date with me, but he was well enough to run when Ruth called? How did she have his cell phone number, when I didn’t?

  “What’s up?” I tried to keep my tone below a whine. After all, we had nothing exclusive and single, straight, church-going men were a rarity in Ottawa.

  “She wants to talk to me,” Frank mumbled, “about a client.”

  “I thought she was retired.”

  “It’s a volunteer thing.”

  No time for further questions, we’d arrived at the church. Frank planted a peck on my cheek, smiled, said thanks and was gone.

  I turned the fan to defrost—either the humidity was climbing again or steam was coming from a mysterious source inside my car. I’d garnered very few answers and several new questions. Ruffles potato chips and a box of chocolates called me home. Junk food therapy and my Internet connection might help calm me.

  Tuesday morning dawned hot and humid. My sugar levels still revved on high, and my ankles had puffed up like marshmallows. You’d think Frito Lay could do something about that.

  All I’d learned from Google was that Ruth Kuhn co-ordinated St. Timothy’s Circles of Support Program, whatever they were. I could use one of those myself—one for cranky reporters who had to sit through brain-drillingly-boring legal motions on butt-numbing court benches.

  By lunch, I was going crazy. Who could I trust to be straight with me?

  I reached Penny Perrin at her home office.

  “Lovely to hear from you.” The Reverend’s happy voice always unearthed her faint British accent. “How are things?”

  “I’m fine. Could you tell me about the Circles of Support?”

  “I thought you would know about them in the course of your work.”

  I assured her I didn’t, reminding her I’d been off the job for several months. Her answer stunned me.

  “Bernadette?” Penny’s worry crackled over the line.

  My stomach lurched. Finally, my tongue moved. “St. Timothy’s supports pedophiles?”

  “Not just pedophiles, other sex offenders, too. Goodness, Bernadette, I thought you knew. Hasn’t Frank discussed this with you?” The minister’s words tumbled in a rush of explanation. “It’s a Corrections Canada initiative—one Ruth championed in the years before her retirement. She’s poured her heart and soul into setting up the pilot project here with us.”

  “How can the Church be involved with this?” I couldn’t wrap my head around the concept.

  “What’s the alternative? These guys have a high recidivism rate, and they usually complete their full sentences without benefit of any kind of day parole or re-entry programs. The Circle volunteers meet with them weekly, helping them reintegrate into society and holding them to account so they don’t re-offend.”

  “I get that. But why the Church? Haven’t there been church officials who have served time for molestation? What about their victims?” Acid cut a nasty swath through my gut. “What about sin and evil?”

  “You’re right, of course. Even more reason to exercise some responsibility for prevention, don’t you think? And Bernadette—you’re forgetting—forgiveness plays an even greater role in Christian faith. A more difficult act, indeed.”

  Penny Perrin was a force. I changed tack. “So Frank’s helping with these Circles because of his job with the John Howard Society?”

  I heard an intake of air. “Frank is indeed involved with one of the Circles. He told you he’s employed with the JHS?”

  “He said he works with JHS. So he must be a volunteer?” My stomach was doing back flips.

  “Ask Frank.” I heard pencil-drumming on a desktop. “If you don’t get satisfactory answers, call me back. I have other calls to make right now. We’ll be in touch.” And she was gone.

  When court adjourned for the day, I fired up my laptop, only to find another blind e-mail message. My reflux flipped to “Broil”.

  It’s The Circle, fool! Check court records from the early 90s for Francesco Amali. Tick. Tock.

  Who was this nosy Parker? Sounded less like a scorned girlfriend, more like that charming George Bowman. It had to be someone who knew about court proceedings as well as the Circles of Support. Ruth Kuhn sprang to mind. Perhaps privacy issues prevented Penny from telling me directly?

  I called our IT security guy to see if he could trace the origins of the message. “Sure, give me a week,” was his uproarious reply.

  With a few keystrokes, I signed into the online database of Federal Criminal Court proceedings and typed in the suggested name. “No online record,” was the response, along with a docket reference number for the paper file. The newspaper was down to one in-house librarian, but she was a crackerjack. She promised to locate the fifteen-year-old material and e-mail me the scanned pages pronto.

  Now what?

  I called Frank.

  “Sorry I can’t take your call right now, I’m either out or with a student.” Beep.

  Doolan women don’t sit on the sidelines.

  I tried newspaper reports for the years 1990-96, finding several from the Toronto Star.

  November 19, 1991: “Folk singer, 24, arrested. Francesco Amali of Mississauga was charged with sexual interference and statutory rape of three female students, aged 12 to 15. Parents threaten to sue parish priest and school board for recom
mending Amali.”

  March 28, 1993: “Forensic psychiatrist testifies Amali is psycho-socially stunted, particularly when it comes to engaging in romantic relationships with women his own age. ‘He sees himself as a peer of these girls, thus, unable to comprehend the gravity of his situation.’ The doctor also testified Amali was not developmentally delayed in his mental capacity nor would he label him a violent offender.”

  October 12, 1993: “Amali found guilty, sentenced to twelve years. Families outraged sentence amounts to only four years for each victim.”

  Marianne called while I was waiting for Amali’s photo to download.

  “So, what’s the scoop? What did you learn about Frank? I assume it wasn’t anything horrific, or you would have called me back. Step-brat’s mother couldn’t handle the whining. She’s taken Chloë for her first lesson.”

  “She’s what?” My eyes were glued to the monitor as the press photo appeared, strip by pixelated strip. “Where’s she taking Chloë? When?”

  “To Frank’s apartment. For guitar lessons! Right now. Are you listening to me?”

  I squinted at the grainy image. Dreamy Mediterranean eyes, sharper features, about ten pounds lighter, more hair—but I knew this man. Bile shot up my throat.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God. Marianne, I gotta go.”

  I careened over speed bumps and honked every glacial motorist out of the passing lane. Pressure built inside my banging skull.

  I scouted for parking spots half a block from Frank’s apartment building. Nothing. All the spots in front were full, and someone had even abandoned a gold-coloured sedan in the driveway.

  I didn’t have time for this! I wheeled into the mouth of the lane and angled onto the patch of front lawn. Racing into the foyer, I rang Frank’s buzzer. No answer. I pounded the glass door and rang all the buzzers.

  Someone tapped my shoulder.

  “Problem, Doolan?” Frank Bowman towered over me.

  The shock of seeing the cop had me stuttering. “I...don’t know. I’m not sure...” What if Frank hadn’t harmed Chloë? Would Bowman jump to conclusions and arrest him anyhow?

  “Bernadette?” Chloë stood at the opened lobby door, her thin face ashen with anxiety. “Did my step-mom send you? Something’s wrong upstairs. We don’t know what’s happening.”

  Behind her, I saw the girl from St. Timothy’s sobbing into a cell phone.

  “Anyone hurt?” Bowman brushed past me and cast a glance between the girls and up the stairs, where I spotted a trail of blood.

  Chloë shivered, but shook her head, “No, we’re okay, but two other people showed up. The first one threw us out of Frank’s. There was a big scene or something. Only one has come back down.”

  “Christ,” Bowman hissed, drawing his service revolver.

  He took the stairs two at a time, turning to yell at me, “Stay,” as I began to follow.

  “Manette,” Bowman hollered when he reached the landing. “Police! Get down on the floor, I’m coming in.”

  I heard the door to Frank’s apartment bang open, wood cracking from the blow.

  No gunfire, no yelling, no sounds of a scuffle. I crept up the stairs. An eerie calm greeted me at the gaping entrance to Frank’s apartment.

  I called out, “George? Frank?” I inched my way into a short hall.

  Frank’s sparsely furnished apartment was a shambles. A guitar amplifier had a yawning hole, electrical cords had been yanked from audio equipment, posters ripped from the walls. All that remained of an acoustic guitar was its jagged neck and splinters of wood. A shiny teal Stratocaster seemed intact but was smeared with a bloody glob.

  At the far side of the room, Penny Perrin sat on the floor, cradling Frank’s battered head. Her denim skirt was soaked through with blood, as were the sleeves of her pale blue sweater. Only her white collar had escaped the carnage.

  “Penny?”

  “He’s dead,” she said, meeting my gaze. “God bless his mortal soul.”

  Bowman emerged from a back hall, holstering his gun. He scowled at me. “Get the hell out of my crime scene, Doolan.”

  He reached down, lifted the Reverend Perrin up by her arm pits and hustled us both out of the apartment to the landing.

  Bowman spoke into his radio, “What’s the ETA on my back-up? Send a bus, pronto. And the coroner.” He barred further entry into the unit.

  It was only then that I wondered about Bowman. Had he kept Frank under surveillance all this time, as an off-duty project? I ventured a guess my IT guys would trace the warning e-mails to the police station.

  “Penny, what happened in there?” I peered into her large green eyes, but I was pretty sure she hadn’t heard me. I shook her arm. “Penny!”

  She looked at me and whispered, “He said, ‘I thought it would be okay, as long as they came together’.”

  Her face crumpled when Bowman placed her under arrest, handcuffs snapped over her wrists. One of the responding officers immediately stepped in to separate me from Penny, but not before I heard her mumble, “Bernadette, find Ruth.”

  Banished to the lobby, I watched as paramedics, the police forensic collection team and others arrived to attend to the dead. Two officers took statements from the teens.

  A female officer escorted Penny Perrin down the stairs and into a waiting police car.

  “It wasn’t the minister,” I heard the other teenager say. “You’ve got the wrong woman.”

  Penny’s mention of Ruth now made sense. After receiving my phone call, Penny must have called her. As the force behind St. Timothy’s Circles of Support, Ruth probably raced over to confront Frank, only to find the girls in his apartment.

  Where was she now? I felt ashamed that I’d believed, even for a second, that the minister could harm Frank. I needed to find Ruth. I slipped, unnoticed, out the rear door to the parking lot.

  Proceeding up the laneway to the street, I realized two things. My car was hemmed in by emergency services vehicles. And the gold sedan blocking the lane when I’d arrived was gone.

  Could that have been Ruth’s vehicle? Where would she have gone?

  St. Timothy’s was five blocks north of Frank’s. Blending into the gathered gawkers, I turned and race-walked to the church.

  How had I been so wrong about Frank? He was a shy, gentle man, but he’d also sexually abused adolescents. Blood pounded behind my ears. He was a convicted pedophile living under a different name. Had dating me been part of his treatment? It was because of me that Chloë had been put in harm’s way. I ran, gasping, the final block.

  A gold Buick was in the small lot, next to a secondary entrance. The church door stood open. Tip-toeing down the darkened hall, I heard a low wail that swung between a loud keening and an injured, wild animal mewing.

  Every so often, I made out human words.

  “He promised me!”

  Passing the Sacristy, it dawned on me that I might be in some danger, but the only object in there that might serve to protect me was the heavy chalice. My Roman Catholic upbringing quickly ruled out that idea. I turned on my cell phone before proceeding to the side entrance of the Chancel.

  Ruth Kuhn lay at the altar steps, clutching a crucifix. Her hands and face were streaked with blood.

  She cried out, “He betrayed us both, Lord.” Ruth rolled from side to side, wailing, “You wanted me to give the pervert a chance. He’s destroyed my life’s work.”

  Using both hands, Ruth struck her forehead repeatedly with the large altar cross.

  The self-flagellation continued unabated, despite my attempts to intervene. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to realize Ruth was in the throes of an emotional breakdown. I called 911.

  It took two muscle-bound paramedics and the responding police officer to wrestle Ruth onto a stretcher, where restraints were applied and the crucifix wrenched from her grasp. She’s under heavy medication at a forensic psychiatry unit. If she doesn’t improve, there will be no justice for Francesco Amali who, by all accounts, had lived a clean life
until he’d caved in to the pressure of two mothers desperate to appease their teenaged daughters.

  Going out had become way too dangerous for my tastes. Crime reporting was losing its lustre too. And I wasn’t at all clear how I felt about my place at St. Timothy’s.

  Another bomb had gone off in my life. Junk food therapy, retail therapy, even desperate trips to the gym—none of my regular rituals brought me peace.

  Time to find a new bomb shelter.

  Susan Gates is a reformed banker and a recovering civil servant. An Anglican, Susan lives, writes and, remarkably, still dates in Ottawa. Her work has appeared in the two previous LKC anthologies. She serves on the executive of Capital Crime Writers. Appreciation is extended to the members of her critiquing group, CrimeStarters, and to Carleton University professor Craig Bennell for sparking this story’s “what if” question.

  Listening In

  Liz Palmer

  Let us enjoy this blessed silence while we may, Ori.” Matthew ran his hand over the soft fur, heard the deep throated purr, and smiled. The perfect companion, quiet, independent and a great listener.

  The cat sprawled limply across his knees. “She doesn’t like you, my friend. A dirty black beast she called you when she chased you from your own kitchen. And why does she shout at me? Do you think she’s under the impression that all people of my age are deaf?

  “Senile too, you say. That would account for the way she treats me.” He sighed. “I feel most uneasy. She has far too much influence over young Tim. Whatever possessed him to fall for an overbearing, managing Englishwoman?

  “Ouch. Be careful.” He rubbed his leg where Ori’s claws had dug in as he jumped off. “My skin isn’t as tough as it used to be. Yes, yes, I’m coming.” He pushed himself up and limped towards the French doors, through which the afternoon sun shone on the dust motes that rose from the faded Persian rug.

  “Professor, Professor, we’re back.”

  “Ori, your ears are sharper than mine.” Matthew opened the door. “Make your escape. I wish I could move as quickly.” The cat slipped out and disappeared into the bushes.