Black Rock

by John McFetridge

“Probably Parthenais,” Rozovsky said. “Inter­viewing people.”

  “How many are there now?”

  “I don’t know, hundreds. They’re letting some go but they’re picking up more all the time.”

  “I guess I’ll have to check these out myself.”

  As he was walking out, he heard Rozovsky say, “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

  It was close to six now, so Dougherty took the Métro back to Guy and walked past Station Ten to his apartment. He changed and got into his Mustang and sat there for a moment, looking at the addresses Rozovsky had written down for him. Both Dorval and Châteauguay would mean taking the expressway and that seemed the most likely. He drove down Guy and took the on-ramp to the 2-20 and headed west.

  He sat in traffic and inched his way across the Mercier Bridge. After half an hour driving around Châteauguay, he found the address and ten minutes later the Lincoln pulled into the driveway and a middle-aged guy with a moustache got out and entered the house.

  Dougherty got out of his car and walked by the house. It looked like Leave It to Beaver; Mom, Dad and the kids in a split-level bungalow in the suburbs.

  This guy didn’t look anything like the young cop from Ironside.

  Dougherty walked around the block, then got back in his car. He was thinking it was possible Nancy Barber in NDG was wrong, that the guy who tried to pull her into the car was older. And had a moustache. And was wearing glasses.

  It could be this guy. He could be a customs clerk, that’s for sure.

  But it was hard to imagine him working for the Higgins brothers.

  Dougherty put him down as a maybe, drove back across the Mercier Bridge and kept going west to Dorval.

  This house was a little more upscale than the one in Châteauguay; older, pre-war probably, bigger and set back on a bigger lot with a few mature trees. There was a separate garage at the end of the driveway behind the house and the whole place looked empty. To Dougherty it didn’t look very lived-in: it looked more like the house of someone who was retired.

  He parked a few houses down the street and walked back and up the driveway. He tried to look into the garage but the windows were covered. Up close, though, the garage wasn’t big enough for a Lincoln anyway, so he headed back to his Mustang and waited for a while.

  The street was dark. There were no streetlights or sidewalks and almost no people. A guy passed, walking a dog and a couple of cars pulled into driveways. Around nine some teenagers walked by and stared at Dougherty but kept going. He listened to the radio, CKGM playing all the hits, and he waited.

  A little after ten, Dougherty drove the few blocks to Lakeshore Boulevard and found a restaurant and had a hamburger and a beer and then returned to the house and waited.

  Just after midnight, the Lincoln pulled into the driveway and a guy in his mid-twenties got out, unlocked the side door of the house and went inside.

  Dougherty sat bolt upright. He wanted to jump out and run to the house, bust in the door and drag the guy out. But he didn’t move. He sat and watched as lights came on in the house, in the kitchen first and then the living room, and then the light of a TV.

  A half hour later, the TV was turned off, the lights downstairs went out and a light came on upstairs. Dougherty watched and waited a few more minutes until those lights went out, too, and the house was dark.

  He sat for a few more minutes, thinking this Lincoln may have been registered to Anne Connelly but the guy driving it and living in this house could sure be the guy they’d mistakenly called Bill for almost a year.

  chapter

  thirty-six

  “It’s not really evidence,” Carpentier said.

  “But it’s not nothing.”

  They were standing in the parking lot behind the courthouse. The building was packed, the arraignments of the most famous people who’d been picked up were starting — the lawyer, Lemieux; the labour leader, Chartrand; and even a writer, Pierre Vallières.

  Carpentier took a drag on his cigarette. “No, it’s not nothing, but under normal circumstances we would need a lot more.”

  “But these aren’t normal circumstances,” Dougherty said.

  “No.”

  A dozen reporters and photographers rushed out of the building towards a car that was pulling into the parking lot and swarmed it before the driver and his passenger could even get the doors open. Cops moved in then, pulling people away from the car, and there was a lot of shouting and shoving.

  Dougherty said, “I started calling custom brokers first thing this morning. Craig Connelly works a few blocks from here. We can bring him in, talk to him.”

  “You don’t think it’s a little crowded?” Carpentier looked at the mob entering through the back door of the courthouse. “From here to Bonsecours Street and back, it’s going to be like this all day.”

  “We can take him to Station Ten.”

  Carpentier thought for a second and then said, “Aren’t you supposed to be on Redpath Crescent?”

  “Mrs. Cross and her daughter are going to Switzerland, staying with family friends there.”

  “I can’t believe this is still going on.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  After a moment, Carpentier dropped his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Okay, let’s go talk to this guy.”

  A few minutes later, they were parked in front of a ten-storey office building on McGill Street. Carpentier and Dougherty entered the building. There was a restaurant to their right and a bank on the left. Straight ahead in the small lobby was a wide staircase and beside that a couple of elevators.

  “It’s only the fourth floor,” Dougherty said, starting up the stairs, but the elevator door was already opening.

  “I’ll meet you.”

  Dougherty got to the fourth floor at the same time as the elevator. Both men had turned the wrong way and stopped at a door marked F.B. Allen — Importers-Exporters.

  The rest of the office doors on the fourth floor were custom brokers and shipping companies. At the far end of the hall, Carpentier opened a door marked Garvey-McDonald — Freight Forwarders, Marine Insurance, Charter Brokers and stepped into the office.

  A young woman sitting behind a receptionist desk looked up, a little startled at Dougherty’s uniform. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, we’d like to talk to someone who works here,” Carpentier said, “a Mr. Craig Connelly.”

  The receptionist said, “I’m sorry, he’s not in right now,” and then looked past the cops and said, “Oh, here he is now. Craig, these men want to talk to you.”

  Dougherty turned and saw the guy he’d seen the night before in Dorval.

  The guy turned and ran.

  Dougherty was after him, charging down the hall, and as he took the corner towards the stairs he ran into a woman coming out of F.B. Allen and knocked her over. The package she was carrying hit the floor and thousands of colourful beads bounced everywhere.

  She said, “Oh my god,” and Dougherty said, “Sorry,” as he ran down the stairs.

  On McGill Street he saw Connelly already a block away, pushing his way past people on the sidewalk.

  Dougherty held up his hand and ran into the street, keeping his eyes on Connelly as he crossed St. Paul and kept going.

  Carpentier was behind them in the car, coming up McGill fast, but Connelly ran into the Métro station entrance on the edge of Victoria Square.

  At the bottom of the escalator, Dougherty saw Connelly disappear around the corner of the long, winding hallway and he kept running as fast as he could. He jumped a turnstile and ran down the stairs towards the tracks. Dougherty lunged and tackled him just as a train came speeding into the station on its rubber wheels.

  Connelly struggled to get away and said, “No, let me jump,” but Dougherty held him down, rolled him onto his stomach and got a knee int
o the small of his back. Connelly continued to struggle. “Why don’t you just kill me now?”

  The handcuffs locked around Connelly’s wrists, and Dougherty stood up, still panting. “Come on.”

  “I want to die.”

  Dougherty bent down and grabbed Connelly by the elbows, stuck out behind his back like chicken wings, and said, “Get up, come on.”

  People were gathering around them then, and now Dougherty wasn’t feeling at all like he’d expected to. He said it again, “Get up,” and pulled a limp Connelly to his feet.

  The crowd was closing in, and Dougherty said, “Okay, move aside. Give us some room, come on,” and pushed the man towards the stairs.

  As they walked, and as the crowd stared them down, Dougherty could feel Connelly rising up, muscles tensing, his whole body changing as they pushed through the crowd. By the time they were ascending the stairs, Connelly was practically snarling, his head snapping from side to side and saying, “What are you looking at?” He hissed at the ticket-taker in his booth as Dougherty shoved him through the turnstile and by the time they got out onto Victoria Square he was saying, “I’m telling you, you got the wrong guy.”

  And Dougherty was thinking, This is more like it.

  Carpentier was waiting by the entrance to the Métro station.

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks.” Dougherty shoved Connelly into the back seat of the patrol car Carpentier had called to the scene. “I’ll go with him?”

  Carpentier said, “Yes, Bonsecours Street. I’ll meet you there.”

  The madhouse at police HQ was still raging, with people being moved from the cells to the courthouse and back. Dougherty took Connelly up to the third floor and put him in an interrogation room.

  Connelly said, “I don’t know what you think is going on, but I didn’t do anything.”

  Dougherty looked at him. “No? Then why did you want me to let you jump in front of the train?”

  Connelly shook his head like he felt sorry for Dougherty and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, I guess I better call a lawyer.”

  “Haven’t you heard of the War Measures Act?” Dougherty said, “You don’t get a lawyer.”

  For a second Connelly looked scared, but then he smiled a little. “We’ll get this straightened out. It’s a mistake, you’ll see.”

  “Sure.”

  Dougherty stepped out into the hall and closed the door and saw Carpentier coming towards him, carrying some thick file folders. Another man was with Carpentier. He was in his late fifties, looking like he just came from the barber, and maybe the tailor with that brand new suit and tie.

  Carpentier said, “Voici le constable dont je vous ai parlé.” Then he looked at Dougherty. “Dougherty, this is Detective-Lieutenant Desjardins.”

  Desjardins had his hand out, and Dougherty shook it, saying, “Sir.”

  “Detective Carpentier said you did good work, Constable.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Desjardins gave a small nod, and then turned to Carpentier. “Okay, let’s see what he says,” he said, then went in to interrogate Connelly.

  Carpentier pulled Dougherty away from the door and leaned in closer, saying, “Stick around. We’ll talk in a while.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carpentier went into the interrogation room as well and the door closed.

  The hallway was quiet, and Dougherty fought the urge to jump into the air and shout and punch a wall in celebration. He got himself under control and went in to the ident office to use the telephone. He dialled from memory.

  When Ruth answered, Dougherty said, “We got him.”

  She started to say, who — then stopped and said, “Oh my god.”

  “Desjardins and Carpentier are questioning him now.”

  “You’re sure? Oh shit, Eddie, this is fantastic.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got him.”

  “Yeah,” Dougherty said. “We did.”

  There was a pause. Dougherty didn’t know what else to say, and he didn’t know what he was expecting from Ruth. Finally, he said, “I guess you’ll want to interview him, too?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “All right, well, I don’t know how long they’ll be. I’ll call you later.”

  Ruth said, “Okay,” and hung up.

  Dougherty put the receiver back in its cradle and looked around for a chair.

  Rozovsky said, “Did you hear we got him?”

  “You’re telling me?”

  Rozovsky was stopped in the doorway. “An apartment on Queen Mary Road, traced a phone number from a piece of scrap paper in the Armstrong Street house. Only one guy, but he’ll lead us to the rest.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Laporte kidnappers. We got one. What are you talking about?”

  “The guy we were calling Bill. His name’s Connelly.”

  Rozovsky stared at Dougherty. “Shit, you got him?”

  “We got him.”

  “Five women he killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you got him.”

  “Yeah.”

  A couple of hours later, Desjardins and Carpentier came out of the interrogation room and Carpentier said, “Bon, let’s get drunk,” and Dougherty went with the rest of the homicide squad to the bar across the street. They made their way through most of the bars in Old Montreal until the sun came up, and Dougerty went home and put on a clean dress uniform and drove Carpentier and Desjardins to Coleraine Street in the Point. He was amazed how the two men looked as if they’d each had a full night’s sleep and figured it must be some detective trick. Or experience.

  Arlene Webber opened the door to her parents’ house and looked past the detectives to Dougherty and said, “You got him?”

  Dougherty nodded and Arlene Webber said, “Good.”

  She didn’t start crying until her mother came to the door, asking who it was, and then they were both crying.

  When Joe Webber came to the door, Carpentier said, “May we come in?” and he and Desjardins walked back to the kitchen with the Webbers.

  Dougherty waited outside on the stoop. He looked up and down the street, all the row houses quiet this early on Saturday morning, the whole Point St. Charles quiet.

  Half an hour later, Desjardins and Carpentier came out of the house, and Dougherty drove them back downtown. After that it was like no one else in the world noticed. The rest of the city, the country, was still waiting for any little detail about the kidnapping, for any news about James Cross, praying he was still alive. And waiting for news about the manhunt for the men who had killed Pierre Laporte.

  Dougherty didn’t hear from Ruth until Thursday, when she phoned him and said, “He didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “Connelly. He didn’t kill Marielle Archambeault, Shirley Audette or Jean Way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “His teeth don’t match.”

  chapter

  thirty-seven

  Dougherty said, “What about Sylvie Berubé and Brenda Webber?”

  “It looks like just Brenda Webber.”

  “I was told the detectives found evidence at his house, his mother’s house.”

  Ruth looked around the restaurant. They were at Ben’s, sitting at a table by the big windows looking out on de Maisonneuve, and she lowered her voice a little and said, “Yes, they found clothes, underwear that belonged to Brenda.”

  “So, what is this, the teeth don’t match?”

  “The bite marks he left on the three women, the three downtown — they don’t match Connolly’s teeth.”

  “And that’s it?”

  Ruth shrugged. “No, there are other things. He was in Florida visiting his mothe
r when Jean Way was killed.”

  “Shit.” Dougherty finished his sandwich. “Only one. This must really screw up your progression theory?”

  “I don’t care about that. You think that’s what this is about?”

  Dougherty said, “No.” He didn’t know what it was about. He’d tried to call Ruth a few times since the arrest but she never answered at home or in her office. She hadn’t even wanted to meet for lunch. She’d called to tell him that Connelly hadn’t killed the other women, and then she’d told him she was moving to Toronto.

  Now he said, “So what’s going on?”

  She pushed her plate away, one bite out of the sandwhich, and picked up the coffee cup. “Dr. Pendleton was excited. He was happy.”

  “The whole homicide squad celebrated for days.”

  “I’d already started doing other work. Remember I told you about Women’s Studies?”

  “At Sir George?”

  “Yes, and now U of T is starting a program. I think I can do more good there.”

  “But you did good here.”

  She put the cup down and it clattered on the saucer. “I can’t do it. I can’t spend every day with death. I can’t make a career out of it.”

  “But you’re doing good. You knew he’d go after another woman — you kept the investigation going.”

  “You think anyone listened to me?” Then, before Dougherty could say anything she said, “Don’t worry, Pendleton is happy to keep working on it.”

  He noticed it was the first time she hadn’t used “Dr.” He said, “You’ve been thinking about this for a while?”

  She said yes. She drank a little coffee, really just stalling before she said, “It’s been a while. I didn’t say anything — I wasn’t sure.”

  “Sure, I get it.” He didn’t really, but he was starting to understand the reason he could never get a handle on Ruth was because she didn’t have one on herself.

  She said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Eddie.”

  “If you say so.”

  A couple of Jeeps and army trucks drove by on de Maisonneuve, followed by a city bus and a steady stream of cars. People were out walking. It was overcast and cold but there was no snow.