The Ambitious City

by Scott Thornley

  The show was lucid, precise, thorough and thrilling: it felt as though the students were opening a time capsule. The chemical analysis was dense but comprehensible, and the animated reconstruction of the damaged skull was magical, but that was just the beginning. Using National Archives photographs taken at the time of the young men’s medal honours, Andrea and her colleagues had skilfully employed a computer modelling program called Tracer to morph the young men’s faces onto their skulls. Noses, jaws, eye orbits, foreheads—everything fit into place. The skeletons had been placed on a metric grid, photographed from above and morphed onto images of the uniformed soldiers to confirm that they matched in body type. Charlie was six feet, George five foot nine. Finally, they presented the Standard’s “Indian Heroes Missing” article, highlighting a paragraph that read in part: “Both men were respected high-riggers on the city’s tallest tower—Dundurn’s amazingly modern Pigott Building—and outspoken advocates for establishing a union to protect high-riggers’ rights.”

  The Chevy moved with the traffic down Main, a steel bubble filled to overflowing with Ellington’s “Solitude.” He parked on the far side of the lot and watched a pair of dark-eyed juncos trading places on a serviceberry tree. For no reason he could identify, he remembered his father, a master of Celtic gloom, standing on the dock on a hot day in August thinking about winter and telling him that the days were getting shorter and by how many seconds.

  His cellphone rang as he reached the door. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Just got an email, came in to the division server,” Wiliams said. “You close?”

  29.

  IT WAS SENT from a house laptop at an Internet café called WebWORX, near the university. Saw your press conference. Know your man. Ask a demographer. Signed X-Dem.

  “I’ve pulled up the organizations in Dundurn that do demographic research,” Aziz said. “Apart from the university, there are only two in the city.”

  “You think it’s the slasher talking to us through email?” Williams asked.

  “No, our man has an agenda,” MacNeice said. “I’m not certain what it is exactly, but this would be tempting fate.”

  “I think you’re right.” Aziz glanced down at her watch. “Though all that may change in forty minutes from now.”

  “What are the names of the firms?” MacNeice asked. For just this minute he didn’t want to think about Fiza tempting fate.

  “Accudem Associates Limited and Braithwaite Demography Incorporated, both in the west end,” Aziz said. “Shall we split up?”

  “I was going to visit the Waterdown OPP detachment, give them a heads-up that I’ll be interviewing one of their citizens—Sean McNamara.”

  “Not just yet, Michael,” MacNeice said. “I’ve demanded search warrants to seize the financial records of ABC, Mancini and McNamara.”

  “That’ll rattle some cages—especially Alberto’s. Pa tells me he’s tight with the mayor.” Vertesi was actually smiling.

  “Someone hired muscle and paid for it. How they put that expense on their books will take some forensic accounting, but it probably wasn’t tucked away under ‘petty cash.’ While we’re waiting for those warrants, we can visit Accudem with photos of our suspect and his bike, and then we’ll go out to Braithwaite. But let’s stick around until Fiza does her press conference.”

  Williams went over to Aziz’s desk and leaned against it, his brown eyes fixed on hers. “I’ve got another thought about our slasher,” he said. “Maybe you can use it.”

  “I’m all ears,” Aziz said, smiling up at him.

  Taking his cue, Williams began to pace, holding an imaginary microphone. “Okay, in grade nine we had a teacher, Miss Dodd, who did a variation on show-and-tell she called ‘Storytelling 101.’ Two months into the year, a kid named Georg—with no E on the end—joins our class. He was Hungarian, son of a guy connected with the Hungarian government somehow. For his first show-and-tell he brings this flag, all stained with blood. It was his grandfather’s, who had carried it during the 1956 uprising when he was killed. Fantastic stuff. Dried blood, almost brown—seriously cool to a ninth-grader.”

  “Is there a point?” Vertesi asked.

  “Lemme finish. So next time, Georg puts up his hand and gives his topic, which he says is ‘Public/Private.’ Miss Dodd’s all over this. He goes up to the front of the room, takes the teacher’s chair and stands on it. I’m in the front row, sitting next to Sophie Levy, Chantal Davidson—a sister—and Judy Jamieson, the sweetest girls in the class.”

  Williams had them all by now, even Ryan, still facing his computer but with his hands still and his head down, listening.

  “Georg looks out at all of us. He’s got a sheet of paper full of typewritten notes. Dodd’s at the back of the room leaning against a bookshelf when Georg smiles, bends over like he’s bowing, then drops sweatpants and gotchies to his ankles and straightens up. His pecker is hanging six feet from Chantal’s face—”

  “What the hell!” Vertesi exclaimed.

  “Exactly. He starts to read this manifesto—all the world’s problems would be solved if we could see each other’s privates in public—but it’s hard to hear him because he’s drowned out by the girls, who are covering their mouths, laughing or screaming these horror-movie screams, and the guys yelling stupid shit from behind. Miss Dodd launches herself off the bookcase, hollerin’ something I can’t remember, and the bookcase topples over as she’s running between the desks, and Georg is reading somethin’ I can’t hear and everyone’s looking at his dick hanging there. Dodd slams into him and gets slapped in the face by it as she’s pullin’ up his sweatpants.

  “Georg is as calm as can be—he just keeps reading. Somebody’s yellin’, ‘Ho-ly-shit-fuck-no-way!’ behind me and Dodd tears Georg off the chair, and it goes skidding across the floor and smashes a plaster bust of Shakespeare that was sitting like a shrine on the table by the window, and wham—they’re out the door and gone.”

  “So what happened?”

  “So, the paper he was reading from fell at my feet. There’s pande-fuckin’-monium breaking loose in the room and I’m sitting there reading this manifesto. He wanted us to understand that power comes from the groin—all subjugation, all violence, all rape, all of everything that’s evil. He had this whole thing mapped out.

  At the end of it he was going to ask that we all stand up and take our clothes off—even Miss Dodd!”

  “What happened next?”

  “Nothin’ happened. She came back in the room ten minutes later, her face almost purple, tore the paper out of my hands and went out again. A few minutes later the bell rang to end the period, and we all walked out. We never saw Georg again—ever.”

  “So what’s your point?” MacNeice asked.

  “My point is … well, two things. The slasher”—he waved a hand dismissively at the whiteboards—“has a manifesto, a mission. Point two, he’s got a dick thing, even if he ain’t using it—at least not yet.”

  Aziz just shook her head. Finally she said, “It’s profound, Montile, and I will keep it in mind.”

  “You make that shit up?” Vertesi asked.

  “My man, you can’t make that shit up!”

  Vertesi’s desk phone rang and he picked it up. He listened to it for a moment, then cupped the phone and said, “Sir, I’ve got Mark Penniman on the line. He’s going over to Old Soldiers and wants an idea of what questions you need answers for.”

  MacNeice took the handset. “Hello, Sergeant.”

  Penniman said, “I’m about a half-mile from Old Soldiers and I need some instructions about what I’m looking for.”

  “Sergeant, this isn’t your fight. We’ll contact the local—”

  “With respect sir, this is my fight. And Gary’d expect my ass to be on the ground where the action is, whether that’s in Afghanistan or Tonawanda. Kindly tell me what I’m looking for.”

  MacNeice turned and stared at the whiteboard while he considered. “What I say now, Mark, is off the recor
d.”

  “Understood.”

  “We think we’ve discovered the connection between Gary, Old Soldiers and the project on our waterfront. Four bodies were dug up recently around here that bear the marks of a specialist—we think Sergeant Hughes.”

  “Go on.”

  “You say Gary wasn’t a biker and we believe you. But he spent time in Old Soldiers, and there are both veterans and bikers there. What we need to know is, are they organized, and if so, do they hire themselves out for security? Did they suffer some losses recently, and about two years ago? But I have no idea how you would go about asking these things without arousing suspicion.”

  “Understood, sir. Anything else?”

  “I wouldn’t advise mentioning Sergeant Hughes by name, or your connection to him. The Canadian club we believe they ran into is Damned Two Deuces—D2D MC.”

  “D2D, roger that. Okay, I’m pulling into the parking lot. I can see what you mean. There are”—there was static on the line for a moment—“eighteen Harleys.”

  “Were you ever a biker?”

  “No, sir. I built a scooter out of a lawn mower when I was in high school, but that’s the closest.”

  “Be careful, Sergeant—”

  “Sir, if there are vets there, we were all trained by the same boss. I’ll be okay.”

  The line went dead and MacNeice hung up.

  “Shouldn’t we be calling in the local police or state troopers?” Aziz asked. “The last thing Sue-Ellen needs is a dead brother.”

  “Trust me, that boy can take care of himself,” Williams said.

  “I’m sure that’s what both of them thought about Gary,” she said.

  “He’s fresh out of combat; Gary wasn’t. I think if a cockroach sneezes in Old Soldiers, he’ll hear it.”

  “Probably say ‘Gesundheit,’ ” Vertesi added, smirking a little at his colleagues.

  “Well, my two macho men, I hope you’re right,” Aziz said.

  No one had the machismo to point out to Aziz that she was about to do the equivalent of walking into Old Soldiers—live and in front of the media.

  MacNeice checked his watch and said to her, “Five minutes until we leave, twelve before it begins.”

  If Aziz was intimidated by standing on a platform in front of television and still cameras—the clacking storm of the latter drowning out Wallace’s introduction—it didn’t show. When she spoke, every word and breath she took was recorded. At one point she raised a hand to push a strand of black hair away from her eye, and the racket sounded like June bugs. Surprised by the suddenness of it, she hesitated, then continued, her voice never wavering.

  She spoke for roughly four minutes, presenting her clinical assessment of the slasher, then paused and asked for questions. Responding to reporters from news sources she’d never heard of, Aziz answered every question professionally and with ease. If she felt the weight of responsibility clawing at her gut—Mayor Bob Maybank was standing so rigidly behind her that MacNeice thought he might pass out—her poise never faltered.

  Only one question, from a reporter in the front row, appeared to faze her: “Are you concerned that your being a female Muslim police officer and criminologist might make you a target for this man?”

  The cameras clacked to a crescendo as they zoomed in for Aziz’s answer. It was, of course, the very heart of the matter, and the question she’d hoped someone would put to her. She let the question sink in for a moment, focusing the media horde’s attention like a professional. “No,” she said, “I am not concerned.”

  The follow-up question came fast. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a woman alone on a stair, a path or the beach.

  I’m an armed detective, surrounded by my police colleagues. Thank you.”

  She took a step back and the Deputy Chief introduced the mayor, who spoke about the fine work of the force and of DS MacNeice’s leadership on both investigations. MacNeice’s announcement of a connection between the bodies discovered at the biker retreat in Cayuga and those found in the bay generated no follow-up questions from the media, who all still seemed focused on Aziz and the slasher.

  It wasn’t till they were leaving City Hall by the back door that Aziz’s whole body seemed to sag.

  “Keep breathing, keep walking. You’ve achieved exactly what you were going for, and maybe better. The black suit was perfect for the occasion.”

  “Well, that’s good, because it was all I had to wear. I packed so fast I wasn’t thinking!”

  As they settled into the Chevy for the drive out to Braithwaite Demography, MacNeice said, “Now the hard part begins—waiting.”

  30.

  THE FIRST THING that struck Mark Penniman was the smell of stale smoke. Most of the world had been sanitized, its smokers banished to the shadows outside bars and restaurants or forced to huddle night and day under the canopies of office towers and bus stations. Everywhere, it seemed, but Iraq, Afghanistan and Tonawanda’s Old Soldiers roadhouse. The years of spilt beer and lit and dead cigarettes was such an assault on the nostrils that it forced him to stop inside the doors. Penniman adjusted to the darkness as the music rolled over him—Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” He walked down the short hallway, past the cigarette and chewing tobacco vending machines and the “Be All You Can Be,” Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, Saving Private Ryan, Band of Brothers, The Hurt Locker and Restrepo posters. The visual cacophony of the images forced Penniman to look away, down at the worn and stained red runner. Every combat soldier he knew who had thought beyond how cool it was to fire weapons and vaporize ragheads knew how contradictory all that was, and how the further from the dust and boredom, the terrible suddenness of killing and hoping you won’t get killed, the better it all looked. And yet he and Gary had been redeployed—happily—so many times he’d almost forgotten. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that they, and those others who survived and went back again, loved it—loved war. Until they didn’t anymore. And he wanted to keep it as simple as that—Gary stopped loving it, but he still did.

  Penniman took a deep breath and slowly, silently exhaled, the way he did before pressing the trigger. Then he stepped through a doorway edged in the Old Glory bunting to survey the room.

  The bar was on the left. Three men sitting at the far end looked over their beer and cigarettes at him. The bartender, who’d been speaking with them, glanced his way before turning back to his friends. Whatever he said made all three laugh; Penniman assumed it was at his expense. In the far corner were two pinball machines and a shoot-’em-up video game with a toy M-16, its sound bursts adding a bizarre staccato to Fogerty’s raspy vocal. Along the windows opposite the bar was a long table with benches on both sides. The curtains were made of dark brown camo canvas that allowed in only a horizontal sliver of light from the Old Soldiers neon sign. Blue smoke drifted above six big men; like distracted cattle their heads turned to check him out while their bodies remained hunched over large glasses of beer. They were dressed in black T-shirts, leather vests and black jeans. Traded one uniform for another, Penniman thought.

  The door to the washroom swung open and a tall, lanky young man walked out. He had a limp, not pronounced, favouring his left foot. The young man nodded his way and took his place at a pinball machine.

  So we’ve got ten men but eighteen motorcycles outside. Where were the others? Penniman scanned the back wall of the bar and saw a door marked PRIVATE next to the washroom. A slice of light defined the bottom of the door—they were inside. He made his way to the bar and studied the display above the bottles of bourbon, whisky and vodka. A long, narrow and faded battalion photograph, Second World War by the looks of it, hung slightly off level. Bookending the photo were two M1 Garand rifles, their straps grimy with dust. Above them, more bunting that looked as if it would fall apart if someone tried to clean it, but there appeared to be no risk of that. To the right, a large box frame contained service patches, and beyond it were more framed photos, presumably of the great b
attles in Europe and the Pacific.

  Next to the door marked private was a giant poster of a Hummer in factory-finish camouflage under the headline HUMVEE INVINCIBLE. It almost made Penniman laugh out loud. The vehicles that arrived in country were quickly modified by those forced to depend on them. They welded extra metal panels—cannibalized from dead Hummers—to the sides and bottom in an often futile attempt to provide more protection. Going out on patrol, these overburdened vehicles looked more like Mad Max than General Motors. And when they hit an IED, it just meant they didn’t bounce as high. What the hell were you doing here, Gary?

  The bartender made his way slowly towards him. “What you drinkin’, bud?”

  “Draught, thanks.”

  The bartender’s meaty paw took hold of the eagle topping the draught handle as he glanced again at Penniman. “You just out or still in?”

  “Still in.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “I was passin’ by and saw the sign. I thought I’d come in and see what old soldiers look like. These guys old soldiers?” He swivelled on the stool and looked at the others. No one seemed interested in him anymore.

  “Most, yeah. Call it truth in advertising.” He put down the glass in front of Penniman, its foam overflowing onto the bar in front of him.

  “Thanks. All army?”

  “All army all the time, brother. You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stationed?”

  “Helmand province.”

  “Tonawanda ain’t Helmand province.”

  “I’m here for a funeral.”

  The tall kid with the limp dodged around the scattered circular tables and wooden chairs and stepped up to the bar, nodding again to Penniman. He asked the bartender for bourbon.

  “You ain’t got the freight, Weasel.”

  “You know I’m good for it, Wayne. I get my cheque next week.”