Secret Rage

by Brent Pilkey

  Taylor scaled the fence at the rear of the parking lot and vanished into the night.

  “Those boots are toast, bud.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jack stomped his feet. “At least they’re not squishing as much now. The blood must be drying.”

  Jack and Connor were standing in the laneway to the east of 310 Dundas Street. The laneway — Jack had learned just tonight that it had a name, Oskenonton Lane — ran north from Dundas up to Carlton Street and was a common shortcut for pedestrians and some cars if the drivers were willing to risk the potholes. There would be no cutting through the lane tonight.

  Jack and Connor were the first to arrive on scene at the stabbing and had found the victim collapsed a short distance up from Dundas, the handle of a steak knife jutting proudly out of his chest. The victim was barely conscious and his breathing was laboured.

  Mine would be laboured too if I had to breathe around a knife.

  “5106 with a priority,” Jack called over the mitre as Connor packed bandages around the knife.

  “Units stay off the air for the priority. Go ahead, 5106.”

  “We’re on the east side of 310 Dundas, in the laneway. We have an adult male who’s been stabbed in the chest. We need a rush on the ambulance.”

  “10-4, 5106. das on the way.”

  The victim, a crackhead judging by his filthy, wasted body, was growing paler before Jack’s eyes.

  “Shit!” Connor cried out in frustration. “I don’t know how many times this guy’s been stabbed. He’s fucking gushing blood.”

  Jack slapped on latex gloves and grabbed a handful of bandages from the scout car’s first-aid kit. “Let’s just put pressure over as many holes as we can find,” he said, squatting beside Connor. And that’s when the victim, in the last moments of his life, puked out a lungful of blood.

  All over Jack’s boots.

  Sunday, 22 July

  0210 hours

  Jack stretched, feeling his spine crack beneath the ballistic vest. He checked his watch under the streetlight. 2:10. Overtime for sure. FIS had rolled up a while ago — not Manny’s team, unfortunately — and started doing their thing. Powerful floodlights bathed the scene in brutal clarity. Jack could see the irregular puddle formed when the bloody vomit had spewed across his boots. It looked like one of those psychiatric ink blots.

  Hm, looks like a butterfly.

  “You got another pair of boots, bud?” Connor asked as he lounged against the scout car. They were blocking off the south end of the laneway and a good chunk of the sidewalk on Dundas. Police tape sagged limply in the muggy air. Yellow plastic party streamers.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ll have to check when I get home.” He grimaced at his boots and stomped again. Inside, the boots were still wet but the outside was drying quickly and semi-dried flakes of blood fell off. “If I don’t, I’ll be wearing running shoes tomorrow.”

  “Sandals might be better in this heat.” Connor tore open the Velcro sides of his external vest carrier and flapped the front panel, fanning himself. “I don’t know how you can wear the interior carrier when it’s this hot.”

  Jack shrugged. “Few reasons.”

  “Such as?” Connor probed.

  “Well, I think it looks more professional than the exterior and why do I want to remind the assholes I’m wearing a vest? Also, the exterior’s a lot of handholds.”

  “Handholds?”

  Jack nodded. “Long ago, well before our time, the dress uniform was the uniform of the day and the assholes were constantly using the cross strap as a handhold during fights. Coppers had to fight management to get the strap removed and now we’ve just gone and given the assholes a bunch of handholds.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Connor commented as he secured his vest in place.

  While Connor had his head down, Jack snuck up on him — not easy to do in squelching, blood-soaked boots — and grabbed the shoulder strap of his vest. Connor managed a startled “Hey!” as Jack yanked him off the car and shook him back and forth, like Justice playing with his favourite stuffed animal, before flinging him away. Connor staggered down the sidewalk several steps before regaining his balance.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Jack mused. “It isn’t that bad.”

  Connor, shamefaced, walked back to the car. “I get your point,” he conceded, tugging his vest back into place. He settled against the car next to Jack. “Sheesh. You taking steroids or something?”

  Shocked, Jack looked at Connor. “Why the fuck is everyone suddenly asking if I’m on ’roids?”

  “Let’s see.” Connor ticked off the points. “You spend more time in the gym than Tank —” tick “— you tossed me around pretty easily —” tick “— and you do have a reputation for a short temper.” Tick.

  “I do?” Jack asked, genuinely amazed. “Wonderful.”

  “Well? Do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you?” Jack snapped and instantly regretted it. Guess my temper is getting short.

  “Not anymore,” Connor admitted.

  This was Connor’s night for shocking Jack. “You took ’roids? No offense, but you’re not exactly huge.”

  Connor laughed. “You should have seen me before. I weighed a hundred and twenty-seven pounds. The guys in 53 called me Skeletor.” He quickly held up a cautionary hand. “I prefer Pest, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “What’s it like? Taking steroids, I mean.”

  “I got some good stuff from this guy I know, did a few cycles and put on sixty pounds, if you can believe it.”

  “Sixty pounds?” Jack was impressed.

  “Yup. Before I went on the juice, I ate like a pig, lifted as heavy as I could and avoided cardio like the plague and still couldn’t put on any size. But with the ’roids, poof! Here I am. Well, not exactly poof. I still had to train my ass off.”

  “Would you ever do them again?”

  “Fuck, no,” Connor said without hesitation. “Being on them scared the shit out of me.”

  “How so?”

  “Your emotions get . . . exaggerated. Whatever you’re feeling, happy, sad, mad, whatever, you really fucking feel it. I was bouncing off the walls I was so happy or ready to kill someone. And you feel tight and bloated all the time. Yuck. But the worst was lying in bed at night listening to my heartbeat. I could feel it pounding in my chest.” He shivered at the memory. “No thanks, not again. I’m happy the size I am.”

  “Hmm,” Jack grunted. Scary shit, but it didn’t matter because Jack wasn’t considering juicing.

  He wasn’t.

  “Well, don’t you look . . .”

  “Look like what?” Jenny demanded as she caught up to Jack by the station’s back door.

  “Well, if you were a guy,” Jack claimed, “I’d say you looked like a bag of shit. But since you’re too pretty to be a bag of shit, how about I say you look like you got ridden hard and put away wet.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s much better than a bag of shit.” Her waist-length hair was hanging loose, looking as rumpled as she did, and she brushed raven-black strands from her face. “Gimme a break, I just got to bed a few hours ago.” She lowered her sunglasses then hurriedly shoved them back in place, but not before Jack caught a glimpse of red-rimmed eyes.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, grinning knowingly. “The bachelorette party. Wasn’t that Friday night?”

  “It was, but for your information, it ran late. We just got back from Niagara Falls this morning. And also for your information, no one rode me. Although —” she fingered the wrinkled fabric of her shirt “— I do vaguely recall something about a fountain.”

  “I guess I’m driving tonight, then,” Jack figured, chuckling.

  “Unless you want to check me out on a breathalyzer. And by the way, smart guy, you’re not looking so prim and proper yourself.”

  Jack smil
ed sheepishly. “Yeah, caught a homicide last night and did some overtime.” He reached for the door but it suddenly slammed open, driving the handle into his sore ribs. He stifled a scream and doubled over. He would have fallen had Jenny not caught him around the waist.

  The metal door was swinging shut and an enraged voice yelled from inside. “Fuck you, too! Next time fucking do it yourself!”

  The door exploded open again and this time someone didn’t stop to yell obscenities. A very pissed-off black man stormed out of the station, his rigid stance radiating his anger. He never spared a glance for Jack and Jenny.

  “Hey, asshole,” she began, taking a step after the male, but a firm hand on her arm kept her from chasing him down.

  “Don’t bother, Jenny. It ain’t worth it.”

  She turned and found Rick Mason, the detective in charge of the Major Crime Unit, holding her back.

  “Who was the prick?” she wanted to know. “I don’t recognize him. He’s not a cop, is he?”

  “No. Just a rather unhappy CI, is all.”

  “So what’s his problem? Someone do his cornrows too tight?”

  Mason lifted his shoulders in a tired I don’t know gesture. Some confidential informants were just assholes. “What’s with Jack?”

  After Jenny had caught him, Jack had settled down on the old picnic table next to the door. He was holding his side and trying not to puke from the pain.

  “Jack’s fine,” Jack announced.

  “You don’t look fine,” Jenny said, eying him critically. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you just got kicked in the balls.”

  Mason nodded in agreement, his long grey goatee brushing his chest. The detective was a big man. Big shoulders, big chest, big belly. With his shaved head and goatee, all he needed was a mess of tattoos to pass as a biker.

  “Hurt my ribs in the gym the other day,” Jack explained. “The door handle caught me in the perfect spot, that’s all.”

  “Should you be going on the road?” Jenny was still viewing him with a doubtful expression.

  Jack waved her concern away. “I’m fine. See?” He stood up and drew a deep breath, successfully masking the pain that lanced through him. “Since when do you meet with an informant at the station, Rick?” he asked to divert attention.

  Mason snorted. “He’s a special case, you could say. Hey, it’s a good thing I ran into you two. You’re with me starting Tuesday. We’re doing a john sweep and I don’t have anyone to play hooker.”

  Jenny shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t know how well Jack’ll be able to shake his money maker with those sore ribs.”

  Mason grinned. “Guess we’ll just have to make do with you and put Jack on backup. The area around Pembroke’s been busy in the afternoons lately so we’re starting at one. Dress slutty. Jenny, not you, Jack,” he clarified and disappeared into the station.

  “You’re looking rather happy with yourself,” Jenny observed.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Jack confessed. “I get to watch you strut your stuff looking all slutty.”

  “Hm.” Jenny cupped her breasts. “I don’t have enough in the boob department to show off cleavage. Guess you’ll have to settle for staring at my ass.”

  “I always do,” Jack said, opening the door for her. “I always do.”

  “Why are we doing a call in 52?” Jack wanted to know as he pulled the scout car to the curb in front of the emergency entrance to St. Michael’s hospital. The heat smacked him in the face as he got out of the car.

  Not a good day to be wearing black polyester and Kevlar.

  “The text said something about the complainant living in 51. I guess the dispatcher figured the assault happened at home so the call got bumped to us. Just as well,” Jenny said as she gently closed the car door. Loud noises weren’t her friend today. “You know as well as I do that if 52 got the call they’d be turning it over to us as soon as they realized it happened on our side of Jarvis.”

  “Can’t expect the Hollywood cops to give up their paid duties.”

  52 Division was the core of downtown Toronto, sandwiched between the armpits of 51 and 14. It held the financial and entertainment districts and was a preferred place to work due to its insanely high amount of paid duties. It seemed to Jack that a lot of 52 coppers avoided radio calls because they didn’t want overtime or court to get in the way of the off-duty assignments for private companies. A detective from 52 CIB had once confided to Jack that the biggest dog fucker in 51 or 14 could come to 52 and be a star.

  Guess that’s what Boris did.

  Armed with a radar gun and his ticket book, Boris had vaulted himself to the top of the heap of ticket writers in 51. Supervisors loved him because he put in such good numbers and coppers hated him because he was a dog fucker when it came to real police work.

  52’s loss is our gain.

  The er doors whooshed open and Jack and Jenny gratefully stepped into the air conditioning. Even the short walk from the car had left them both sweating under their ballistic vests. The waiting room, like any city’s downtown hospital, Jack imagined, was controlled chaos. The line at the triage was four deep, all the chairs in the waiting area were packed and not everyone was waiting patiently. Two stressed-looking security guards were explaining, probably for the hundredth time that hour, how patients were seen according to severity of injury, not in order of appearance. The stocky woman being enlightened by security had an equally stocky child in tow. The boy looked unconcerned, shoving Tostitos in his mouth as his mom argued with security.

  “No, it’s you who doesn’t understand,” she expounded, her voice rising shrilly. “My son needs his stomach looked at, he’s in dreadful discomfort and needs medical attention this second.”

  Your kid needs to lay off the chips, lady.

  Jack could hear the twin sighs as the guards launched into the explanation yet again. Jack wished them luck.

  The triage nurse looked like she was deep enough into her shift to have lost sight of when it began but not far along enough to be able to glimpse the end. Jack could commiserate; he’d been there enough times himself. Hell, all shift workers had.

  The nurse glanced up at them from her computer then scanned the area around them.

  “Don’t worry,” Jenny said with a smile. “We’re not bringing you anyone.”

  “That makes you the first two who haven’t,” she grumbled wearily. “But don’t expect too much in the way of gratitude. I’m too damned tired.”

  “Got long to go before shift ends?” Jack asked.

  “Ends?” She smiled bitterly. “I was supposed to go home three hours ago.”

  “Ouch,” Jack and Jenny said in unison, eliciting a small grin from the nurse.

  “We’re looking for . . .” Jenny consulted her notebook. “Cindy Rutherford.”

  The nurse directed them to the Major section of the er and they left her with their hopes for a quick end to her overtime. They found Cindy reclining in her bed and there was no doubting she needed to talk with the police.

  Cindy’s face, where it wasn’t covered in bandages and gauze, was a mass of swollen, bruised flesh. The purple of the bruises was almost black, painfully vivid against the white of the gauze. Her right eye was hidden beneath protective bandages and her left was reduced to a mere slit through puffed flesh. The eye was so swollen that Jack couldn’t tell if she was watching them or asleep.

  “Yeah, some asshole did a number on her, all right,” said the woman sitting next to the bed, reading the cops’ expressions.

  “Boyfriend?” Jack supposed but the woman sitting bedside shook her head. There was something familiar about the light-complexioned black woman, but Jack couldn’t quite grasp it.

  “You’d think so, but it wasn’t. Just some asshole off the street.” The woman stared at them, as if challenging them, and Jack remembered where he
knew her from but Jenny got there first.

  “You work the corner at Gerrard and Church, don’t you?”

  The woman’s stare dissolved into a sneer. “So what if we work the streets?” she spat at Jenny. “That don’t give some asshole the right to do this to her.”

  “I never said it does, and it doesn’t,” Jenny answered calmly, not rising to the woman’s aggression. “But if this happened when Cindy was working, then it could mean a lot of potential witnesses. Other working girls, businesses in the area.”

  “I know you.” The voice was weak, hesitant, but it captured everyone’s attention. Cindy was sitting up straighter, her one usable eye creaked open and fixated on Jack.

  “You do?” He didn’t bother trying to put a name to her face; he wouldn’t have been able to recognize his own face in that condition.

  She slowly nodded, a mere shifting of her head, but her friend covered Cindy’s hand with her own. “Try not to move, Star. The doctor said your ribs are all busted up.”

  Star? The name tugged at Jack’s memory and suddenly he had her face in his mind. “I met you last year, didn’t I? We helped you out at a john’s apartment when he didn’t want to pay.”

  Again, that agonizingly slow nod.

  “I was working with Sy,” Jack explained to Jenny. “It was the first call I ever did with Manny.” He turned back to Cindy. “You’d just started working then. It wasn’t the same guy, was it?”

  A slight turn of the head. No.

  That would have been too easy. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper, buried beneath the weight of her injuries, but there was a core of strength in it and the officers nodded in approval.

  “Then let’s get started,” Jack declared, taking out his memo book. “And if we’re lucky, when we catch this guy he won’t want to be arrested and we can arrange a trip to the hospital for him.”

  Jack wasn’t sure, but he thought the corners of Cindy’s mouth twitched in appreciation.