Clean Sweep

by Michael J. Clark

  Worschuk looked surprised. “This morning? When the fuck did that —” Worschuk was more upset that he hadn’t received a tip from one of his fluff-piece confederates. It didn’t play well for Worschuk to be the last to know of a fresh homicide.

  Wilson glared at Worschuk. “Keep your voice down!”

  “Was it Claire —”

  “No, and keep your fucking voice down!”

  Worschuk composed himself as Wilson explained. “I’ve still got some teeth in my head, and people still like to tell me what’s going on.” Wilson took another slurp of his soup, now cold enough to produce a reaction of disgust. He put the spoon to the side. “An emergency scanner does wonders, too.” Wilson looked hopefully towards the front of the restaurant, knowing it was far too soon for a steak to appear. “Looks like the roommate was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or an OD, whichever you prefer to believe.”

  Worschuk leaned back as far as he could in the tight booth. Even he knew it was far too much effort occurring in far too little time for the crime. “She must have something pretty big on somebody to get this kind of attention. This isn’t just the Stephanos whack.” Worschuk considered another breadstick, withdrawing his fingers from the bowl at the last second. “Did she have pictures on somebody? Video? A list of johns?”

  “Maybe,” said Wilson as he swirled his cold soup in search of pockets of steam. “She wouldn’t be the first hooker with an insurance policy. The problem is that very few of them ever cash in. Most of them have a habit the size of Transcona. That makes it a hard juggle to hide, run, and score, plus stay alive. Most end up in Brady Road, a ditch on Pipeline, or face down on Community Row.”

  “You mean face off,” said Worschuk, in search of cop-worthy darkness. Wilson maintained his deadpan, enjoying the Worschuk squirm. Wilson turned to his notebook, flipping through the pages in a form of file search that only he could understand. “Brady Road,” he muttered. “You know, funny thing about Brady Road.”

  Worschuk leaned in. “What’s that?”

  Wilson flipped a little more to confirm his suspicions. “We never had a body put in a dump before Brady, and when you think about it, not the smartest place to dump anything. They’re always pushing, dragging, scooping up garbage. You’d think they’d find a piece of somebody — a foot, a leg, anything. Then, about three-and-a-half years ago, they start finding shit — wallets, IDs, a few dental partials, but no meat, not even enough to make a cheeseburger. And get this — every one of them was on the active Missing Persons list.” Wilson flipped some more. “Plus, every one of them was known to police.”

  Worschuk rubbed his morning whiskers for inspiration. “Did they declare them?”

  “Every last one of them.” said Wilson. He flipped a little more. “That’s seventeen bodies we never found, and those are just the ones who were reported missing. They’ve found other IDs in there, but if they weren’t missing or wanted, they probably chalked it up to folks who haven’t read the news on why you should chop up your old credit cards. Or, what they did was so dumb that they weren’t going to stick around to see how it played out. If nobody misses you, we’re not going to start looking for you.”

  The tale was starting to move into Worschuk’s element. He understood convicts better than most cops with badges, even ex-cops like Wilson. Someone was helping these cons get out of the Life and out of town. The question was who would be crazy and/or dumb enough to invite such notoriety. “Any particular trade?” said Worschuk.

  “Naw, it’s all over the map,” said Wilson. “Hooking, B and E, a few HR wannabes.” He leaned out of the booth, hopeful that the zephyrs of charred meat were heading his way. “It doesn’t look like they knew the same people or hung out in the same places. They were just . . .”

  Worschuk couldn’t wait for Wilson to complete his thought. “They were just what?”

  “Garbage,” said Wilson. “Grade A, prime cut, economy-sized packs of human garbage. Somebody was gunning for every single last one of these fuckers. When that happens, your choices are somewhat limited for your survival. You can pull a suicide or face the music, which is usually just another form of suicide. Or, you can disappear.” Wilson dabbed a freshly opened breadstick in the soup. “There’s a magician in town,” said Wilson. “And he’s really, really good. Dean Gunnarson–good.”

  A magician. Worschuk let the idea roll around in his head for a moment as Wilson gave an annoyed lean-and-glance towards the kitchen. This is one hell of a smoke-and-mirrors operator, thought Worschuk. It almost smelled of cop involvement, especially with the quick-pronounced missing persons. Worschuk tried to think of anyone who could be an obvious candidate. Nothing clicked. He knew it was someone sympathetic to the cause, perhaps a social worker or a parole officer with a heart of gold. They may have wanted to help, though getting found out would surely mean the end of a career, or worse. This was charity that seemed more like a winning lottery ticket in its level of generosity. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as the waitress arrived with Wilson’s over-marbled rib-eye. Wilson had no gristle fears as he devoured the first cut. Worschuk started to deduce out loud. “It has to be someone who’s con-savvy, someone who gets them. Maybe even one of them.”

  Wilson nodded. “That would play, but whoever it is, they better hope that no one finds out how much of a stand-up guy they are.” He took another bite of the mediocre steak as he formed his next thought. “It’s a dead man’s hand, no matter how you play it.”

  Worschuk contemplated why this person would incur such risk. How had they avoided detection by criminals? He was still staring off into space when Wilson snapped his sausage-like fingers at him. “411 Cumberland,” said Wilson as he finished the chew. “They’ll be on scene for at least another hour.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Traffic on Osborne Street South was relatively light, though that didn’t keep The Voice and his silver Chrysler 300-C from maintaining a twenty-kilometre-per-hour premium on the speed limit. He slowed at the obvious photo-radar intersections and spiked the brake whenever he saw a late-model Dodge Caravan idling in a no-parking zone. These were the mobile photo-radar units, which were technically marked units with parking enforcement labels adhered to the rear curbside windows. The only ones who ever saw those markings were pedestrians.

  He tapped the signal for a left on Morley Avenue, coasting through the remaining stop signs towards the Riverview Health Centre. The centre was born from the remnants of two vintage brick structures, the former King George and King Edward Hospitals. The old buildings had long since been demolished, with a new care facility and a mandate aimed at the booming growth in the elderly populace. It had become a respected palliative care centre and an Alzheimer’s research facility, plus something of a clearing house for the longest of long-term patients with debilitating ailments of a bygone era. Little remained to tell visitors about the polio epidemic that swept through the city in 1953, though there were still a few iron lungs in operation in less-travelled wards.

  The Voice, clutching a zippered leather folio, melded easily into the corridors. He kept a brisk pace, the kind usually reserved for those with military or law enforcement backgrounds. The staff and security officers made the obvious assumptions: drug rep, medical supply salesman, syringe-pump pusher. He was acutely aware of the security camera locations, dodging them with precision without seeming evasive. Eventually, he found a slight inner hallway with a stairway that should have been marked for authorized personnel. It was steeper than standard inclines, descending to the expected labyrinth of hospital piping and conduit. It was still the lunch hour, which The Voice had planned for, to avoid detection.

  It took fifty-three steps to reach the door, emblazoned with a biohazard warning sticker. The Voice produced a key and entered into the room quickly. The aroma was part medication, part saline, part dead tissue. It had little effect on his olfactory system. He produced a key card and approached the rear of t
he room, placing him at the northern most tip of the new facility. There was no card reader; at least, not one that could be seen or swiped. He held the card at a height of approximately seven feet, and waited.

  The wall started to slide open, without the grinding effects associated with grave robber movies. It was a polite, almost silent movement. The opening was approximately four feet wide and could easily accommodate a hospital gurney. He stepped into a hallway of standard width, lit with the brightness normally associated with a budget apartment block. The floor had been expertly polished, the walls painted with generous coats of putty grey. There was no whiff of mold, no scampering rodents to contend with, just the polite hum of the overhead air-exchange system.

  The tunnel was constructed of many angles, easily confusing the actual earthbound direction after the fifth turn. It took about four minutes to navigate to a blind corner, made safer by the addition of an overhead convex mirror. Once rounded, the walls connected to the remnants of an old foundation of massive limestone blocks. In the centre of this transition was a smudge-free door of machine-turned stainless steel. He held the security card to the blue glow of an LED at the right-hand side of the door frame. The steel panel whispered open, leading to another secure inlet. Once the panel had slid shut, The Voice closed his eyes for the security scan, which bathed him from head to toe in a matrix of blue LED light. A small panel opened in the ceiling, lowering a dual retinal scanner to eye level. The Voice removed his grey horn-rimmed glasses and positioned his eyes in the hovering goggles. A mechanical whirring sound signalled the opening of the next door, easily a foot thick, with a locking system that spoke more of a bank vault than insulated steel.

  The scent of fresh-cut flowers beckoned from within, mingling with the initial notes of the “So What” cut from the Miles Davis masterpiece Kind of Blue. The interior walls were finished in cherry oak panelling from floor to ceiling. The floor was an artisan work of complementary terrazzo tiles. Crystal sconces cast subdued lighting, though it didn’t take long to notice that the entire ceiling was a fully-lighted panel, most likely required for the needs of emergency resuscitation. It stood dark for the time being. There were minimal furnishings, which were easily eclipsed by the highly polished Emerson respirator in the centre of the room. The iron lung had been treated to the utmost care for its patient, a patient who was being spoon-fed by a nurse when Mr. Ponytail arrived. She was dressed like a nurse would have dressed in the 1950s, replete with a navy cape, temporarily draped on a nearby settee. The makeup and hair were also period correct, though she surely hadn’t been alive during the ravages of the polio epidemic. She looked up at The Voice with a thirty-something face, giving a cordial nod before storing the feeding items in an insulated lunch bag. She donned her cape and headed briskly for the exterior passage. He took her chair, still engulfed with her warmth.

  He looked at the exposed head of the man in the respirator — pale and well populated with wrinkles and age spots. His eyes were closed, though not in slumber. The remnants of his hair were cut short, almost, but not quite, stubble. The steady exhale of the respirator and the Miles Davis sextet were the only sounds for the next minute, until the man spoke. “Volume, twenty percent,” said the man, with an authoritative tone. Miles and his masters complied. He opened his eyes, revealing sharp, piercing greens. “Good afternoon, Nathaniel,” said the broken man. “I trust that this current matter is now behind us.”

  It wasn’t, though Nathaniel still hoped that the explanation he was formulating would at least suffice for the moment. “We have confirmed the identity of the sex trade worker who was responsible for the Stephanos murder, as well as the theft of the briefcase with the ledger. A search of her place of residence yielded strong clues as to the identity of a key member of her inner circle. I have an operative en route to confirm as we speak. As a precaution, the roommate of the subject was terminated, after it was determined by the operative that she possessed no information as to the subject’s whereabouts. All key points of exit from the city are under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Intersection and downtown camera feeds are being monitored. We anticipate a capture, termination, and recovery of the ledger within the next twenty-four hours.”

  The broken man sighed as hard as he could in an iron lung. “That was some very impressive bullshit Nate — some of your best work. In other times of crisis, it would have sufficed. But today, of all days, that simply won’t do. The current matter is not behind us, Nathaniel. It is still very much alive. And it threatens to destroy more than you can possibly know.” He closed his eyes again. “It threatens to destroy our legacy in its entirety.”

  “I understand,” said Nathaniel, also nodding at the closed eyes of the broken man. “There shall be no such outcome.”

  The broken man gave the slightest smile. “That is all, Nathaniel,” he said. He opened his eyes to coincide with his forming lips. “Dave Brubeck Quartet, ‘Take Five,’ volume fifty percent.” Wherever the system that heard him was, it understood.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Miles Sawatski idled in front of 411 Cumberland, consulting his notebook more to pass the time than to solve a murder. Gayle Spence was standing near the front door, speaking with the lead on the homicide of Claire Hebert’s roommate. Sawatski rubbed his eyes to focus on his notes. The cameras were on the fritz, of course, with no footage recorded from six p.m. on for the previous evening. The techs weren’t sure on the intercourse prelim, as it would take a while to determine how many clients had gained entry. Semen was noted, both vaginal and anal, a growing trend amongst adventurous johns, who would pay premiums for bareback service. Sawatski thought momentarily about some faceless housewife in Linden Woods, unaware of the potential threats of disease that her well-heeled husband was bringing into their marriage bed. He wondered if that’s where the next homicide call-out would be from, the snow-blown driveways and Christmas lights of suburbia. He was still smiling to himself when Spence entered the Crown Vic. She immediately caught the happy tell.

  “You shouldn’t be smiling that big at a crime scene,” said Spence, adding a comical yet dour tone to a deadpan look. “One of those freelance long-lens hacks for the Sentinel might put you on the front page for shits and giggles.” Recent pictures and television coverage had shown members of the traffic division’s fatality squad smiling at a three-death pile-up near the University of Manitoba. Whatever the joke, the grins weren’t welcomed by the grieving parents, which resulted in paid suspensions plus a strongly worded communiqué to the rank and file: dead meant deadpan.

  They both looked towards the playground structure of Central Park, a handy perch for a media shooter. It was empty, as were the sidewalks, except for neighbourhood onlookers with nothing better to do. The meat wagon was gone. The shots that mattered to deadline and six p.m. newscasts were already in the can. Sawatski decided to heed the warning and drove a half block down Carlton Street for some idling chat in front of a fire hydrant.

  Sawatski was getting concerned, which luckily had not shown up as a tell. He had received the fresh meat text from Spence as he walked back from The Line Up to Robbery-Homicide and hopped into the Crown Vic as she pulled into the exit driveway of the former hydro station. While they weren’t the primary, there was enough evidence pointing to this apartment as Hebert’s key residence. Her roommate’s bedroom was an obvious home office, in both paraphernalia and decor. Hebert’s bedroom was a sanctuary, with a simple elegance to it. The room could have been easily deposited into many a suburban home; it was almost open-house clean. Pictures of family from happier times and a teddy bear collection on the bed allowed a smile to shine through the darkness of her chosen trade.

  The money from the Line Up toilet was still in Sawatski’s pocket. He thought it would jump out at any moment and start talking about his clandestine activities to his partner. Spence flipped through her notes, hoping for something that could determine the next stop on the search for Claire Hebert. “Gotta hand it to
her,” said Spence as she flipped slowly through the key pages. “The girl doesn’t leave much of a trail. Whatever she’s got for a john list must be with her.” She flipped a little more while Sawatski rubbed his eyes. “Even I have more sex toys than what she has in her drawers!”

  Sawatski would have said something amusing to cap off Spence’s statement, but his mind was elsewhere. Spence noticed. “What’s up, Mileage?”

  Sawatski yawned as part of the buildup for his fabrication. “Sorry partner, I’m just running on fumes. Besides, this whole thing is bullshit anyway. Claire-Bear is either underground or under the ground by now.”

  Spence flipped forward. “Was Claire-Bear a user? I didn’t see a kit in her room.”

  “Probably,” said Sawatski. “It may not have been regular hardcore, but you can pretty much include the recreational stuff. I don’t see how you do this gig without it, plus the pharmaceuticals, and the vodka.”

  “Well, the roomie OD’d on some quality shit,” said Spence. “The techs are just going off field tests for the residue, but they’re guessing ninety percent pure, just off the colour.” Like with most street-level heroin, Winnipeg’s addicts were lucky to get twenty percent purity after the mix had been cut down and cut down again at some point, usually during the transfers from Montreal.

  Sawatski was skeptical. “If that smack is ninety percent, I doubt it’s even local — sounds like it came out of a Hollywood movie.”

  Spence rubbed her eyes, a mannerism Sawatski realized she’d picked up from him. “Are they filming any movies right now in the Exchange?” The Exchange District had been used extensively over the last twenty years as a period backdrop. “What was that one that Brad Pitt did here?”

  “Wasn’t it that Jesse James thing?”

  “Yeah! I saw him one day on Bannatyne!” Spence smiled as she remembered her brush with fame.