Fall from Grace

by Wayne Arthurson

  And when the Oilers scored the first goal of the game, after Peter and I celebrated with the rest of the crowd, he looked at me and smiled his beautiful smile, his whole face shining brighter than the fake fireworks they shot off after the goal. “The guys at school are going to fucking die when I tell them about this,” he said. “This is fucking awesome, Dad.”

  When he called me Dad, I realized that there were some things bigger and stronger than any of my other addictions. I knew then that I had to do what I could to get him to call me that again and again. If I could achieve that, then all would be fine in the world. But even if I screwed up and never saw him again, I would at least have had that one moment.

  But when the first intermission came up, something inside of me kicked in. When I heard that buzzer go and the sound of the Zambonis coming out to clean the ice, I was transported back in time, to when I was a kid and my dad had taken me to a hockey game.

  Back then, there were no Edmonton Oilers, no NHL hockey team in the city. In fact, the only NHL team in Western Canada was the Vancouver Canucks. And even then, most Canadians still weren’t used to it. The idea that cities like Edmonton and Calgary would have NHL teams was a dream that no one really had even started to imagine.

  We were living in Calgary at the time and the closest thing we had then to a professional hockey team was the Calgary Centennials, a scrappy Major Junior A team. Major Junior A hockey was the pinnacle of amateur hockey in Canada, similar to the NCAA in the U.S. for sports like basketball, football, and so on, but without all the academic trappings.

  The players were between sixteen and twenty years old and many were NHL prospects. And prior to the NHL expansion in the eighties, Major Junior hockey was the best hockey one could find in Western Canada.

  Going to a live Junior A hockey game with all the noises, the smell of popcorn, frying fat of the concessions, and the overlying haze of cigarette smoke was intoxicating to a seven-year-old kid. And even though they were still only teenagers, the players were stars. With no professional hockey in town, local sports coverage in the winter focused on the Centennials. Players like John Davidson, Danny Gare, Bob Nystrom, and Mike Rogers, players who would later go on to great careers in the NHL, were known throughout town.

  At the game, I was just like Peter, bouncing in my seat, shocked that I was actually here. The game was held at the Stampede Corral, an old brick hockey arena seating about six thousand people located in the middle of the grounds where the annual Calgary Stampede was held. Although the building was much dated even then, being in it made me feel as if I was at bigger and more famous rinks like the Forum in Montreal or Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto.

  Coming to the game with only my dad was a rare treat for me. Almost everywhere I went with my dad, even to see Stampede Wrestling at the Victoria Pavilion, just right next door to the Corral, my sisters always had to tag along. But even though they had insisted on coming to this game, my old man stood his ground.

  “Sorry, girls. This is a man’s thing,” he said. “If Leo wants to play in the NHL then he’s going to have to see how the big boys play.”

  So I was overjoyed beyond belief being not only on an outing with just my dad, but in the stands of the Calgary Corral to see the Centennials take on their provincial rivals, the evil Edmonton Oil Kings. So many years later, I remembered little about the game itself; I couldn’t even recall what the score was or who won.

  My biggest memory of the game was my dad buying me a Coke and one of those boxes of Lucky Elephant popcorn and then us finding our seats for the start of the game. The sounds of the game was something else, the buzz of the crowd, the thundering organ with its traditional hockey songs, the sharp scrape of the skates on the ice and the crack of the puck as it careened off the boards after a shot from the point.

  I also remembered the speed, the quickness with which the game developed. Although the hockey was not up to the caliber of the NHL, most of us in the stands had only seen the NHL on TV. And the one thing that TV can’t do, even in these high-definition days, is capture the speed of the actual game. I made a mental note, as much as I could at seven years old, that if I wanted to play in the NHL, I’d better work on my skating.

  Those first five or seven minutes of the first period were pure joy. And then my old man shrugged, said he had to take a leak, slapped me on the shoulder, and left. For the first few minutes, I was so into the game, I barely registered that he was gone. But after a while, I began to notice he had been away longer than it normally took to take a piss. Okay, he had to take a dump, my seven-year-old mind theorized. My old man loved to take a long time taking a dump at home so this was no different.

  When the buzzer sounded for the end of the first period and the old Zamboni came out at the east of the rink, I realized that he wasn’t coming back. He hadn’t left me behind for the night; I knew he was out there somewhere in the stands, in the concourse, talking and smoking and drinking with his friends, and he would drive me home after the game, but he wasn’t going to spend any more time with me.

  I got my ticket to the game, my drink, my popcorn, my quick first part of the first period with him, and that was it. I would get nothing more. Even at the age of seven, I had come to know my dad and his habits pretty well.

  But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

  And that’s what I kept going over and over again, during my time with Peter at the Oilers game. I never left his side, except to briefly go to the bathroom and to refill our drinks and food, and I engaged him in brief conversations about the game and the Oilers generally, but I wasn’t really present. Most of the time I was a seven-year-old, back in the Calgary Corral.

  On the way back to the coffee shop, I was on edge. I knew he had to get back, that Joan was waiting, and if I was too late, she would end it all, cut me off from contact with my family. But there was something else I needed to do. I needed to purge my body of that memory, needed to find someplace I could go and bring things to a head, but there was no way I could show up at a casino with Peter. They wouldn’t allow him in and I couldn’t leave him in the car. There was only one other place I could go, and leaving him in the car wouldn’t seem so bad because it would only take a few minutes.

  “You know, Peter, we should get back to your mom ASAP, but I’ve got a headache, and if you don’t mind, I need to stop at a store somewhere and get some Tylenol or something,” I said as casually as I could. “However, I could drop you off with your mom first, if you want?”

  Peter, being the wonderful kid that he was, shook his head. “That’s okay, Dad, get what you need. It shouldn’t be no problem.”

  But there was a bit of a problem. Since it was a Saturday, most bank branches weren’t open. And even though I knew that, I kept looking. I gave Peter excuses about the other strip malls not having a drugstore or something stupid or whatever. He may have thought that something was out of sorts, but to be honest I wasn’t really paying that much attention to him. I was too focused on what I thought needed to be done.

  At the third strip mall, I found a kind of replacement, one of the payday loan places. It probably had money just like a bank, and since it was a chain, I figured it probably gave similar training to its staff concerning robbery.

  I parked the car, leaving the engine running and climbing out. “You hang tight here, Peter, I won’t be long,” I said. And before he had a chance to argue and to ask to come with me, I dashed away. I made like I was heading to the drugstore but I had parked facing the street so he couldn’t really see the storefronts.

  As I made my way to the payday loan store, I pulled my ball cap out of my pocket and slipped it onto my head. I pulled the brim down to partially obscure my face. I pulled the outside door and was about to step in when I stopped.

  That seven-year-old boy during that hockey game years ago came back to me and I saw myself sitting all alone in that big hockey rink while my old man was doing his own thing. And then I saw Peter in the front seat of the car, innocently waiting for
me.

  I wondered what would happen to Peter if I got caught this time. How long would he sit until he realized that something was wrong? How would he live knowing that his father had taken him along on a bank robbery? And what would Children Services think about that? Would they deem Joan unfit because she had allowed me to take Peter to a hockey game?

  “May I help you?” I heard someone ask.

  I turned to the sound and saw that one of the clerks had noticed me standing in the doorway. I waited for a second and then shook my head. “Oh, sorry, I think I forgot my wallet.” And then I left the building, dashed through the parking lot, and back into the car.

  Peter sat there as if nothing was wrong. He smiled when he saw me. “You okay, Dad?” he asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice and his face. I wanted to hug my boy forever, but instead I nodded and smiled back.

  “Yeah, I got what I needed.”

  We said little on the drive back to the coffee shop, a few comments about the game and how we should do this again, although I warned him that it wouldn’t always be hockey games, that it was only a special occasion to impress the shit out of him. He laughed at that, especially at the fact that I said shit.

  When Joan spotted us arriving at the coffee shop, I could see her face and body relax. “Sorry for being late. The game went a bit longer than expected, right, Peter?”

  He nodded and went into a excited monologue about where we sat, what we ate, who scored, how the ref made a bad call in the second period and all that. I looked at Joan and nodded at her. Her look was neutral. Despite the joy in her son’s voice, she still didn’t trust me. I didn’t fault her for it. Heck, I barely trusted myself.

  32

  Even though I knew the police and prostitute story was dead, I couldn’t let it go. The fact that there was now a police document stating some members of the EPS had abused and blackmailed city prostitutes in the past made me wonder if one of them had taken things too far.

  It was a big leap to imagine a city cop might be involved in one of these murders; Edmonton cops had had their problems over the past decade but killing a prostitute, or one of them being a serial murderer, was unthinkable. Even crazy.

  But that was the way my mind worked sometimes. A small thought would be planted for whatever reason, a connection would be made that seemed logical, and even though it wasn’t really something to worry about or it didn’t really have a basis in reality, it would keep poking and jabbing at me until I had no choice but to pay attention and act.

  This time it was probably due to some residual feelings from my recent outing with Peter and my close call at the payday loan place. And it reminded me of the way I’d obsessed over the search for Charlie. Since I hadn’t been able to stop myself that time, why would this time be any different? So I read Gardiner’s file over and over again, looking for anything that would keep this story, and possibly Grace’s story, alive.

  On page 5 of Gardiner’s file I found something that kept me going. It was alleged that a Constable Simon Meredith had set up a party for some of his fellow EPS members and used threats of physical violence to get a good number of young prostitutes to attend. It was further alleged, based on a thirdhand account, mind you, that the same Constable Meredith had beaten one of those prostitutes, breaking her nose and choking her to the point of unconsciousness before he tossed her aside.

  I ran Meredith’s name through the Infomart, expecting to get nothing. I told myself if I did, I would call it quits until something really substantial came up. What I found only convinced me to continue. Meredith’s name did come up a few times and most entries had to do with appearances before police disciplinary committees for his behavior while on duty. He had even been charged with assault a couple of times, once for an off-duty bar fight in which another patron’s arm had been broken, and another time when he used his Taser three times on a guy sleeping in a rooming house.

  Both times, the charges were dropped. The first, because witnesses, most of them also off-duty police officers, testified that the other guy had started the fight. As for the guy Tasered in his sleep, the court believed Meredith’s testimony in which he stated that he thought his life was in danger because the sleeping man was reportedly a robbery suspect, and if he woke him in a regular fashion, the suspect would strike out with a weapon. So he decided to use the Taser, even though there were no weapons found at the scene and the guy had no prior record and nothing to do with a robbery.

  But the only witnesses to the event were Meredith, the guy who got Tasered, and another homeless guy who was sleeping in a neighboring bed. And since the two homeless guys didn’t show up for the trial, Meredith’s testimony was the only thing to count and the charge was dismissed by the judge.

  It was obvious that Meredith had problems with violence. I found his name and address in the phone book and went to see if he would talk to me. Maybe, I thought, he would confess to killing prostitutes and I would be the hero of the day again.

  He was splitting wood in his backyard, the sound of each chop echoing through the neighborhood like a sharp gunshot. Even though it was barely minus 15 degrees Celsius, and I was wearing my winter jacket, gloves, toque and long underwear, he was sporting only a pair of torn jeans and a T-shirt with the EPS crest just below the right shoulder. Because of the cold, his body was steaming and with every swing it exploded into a cloud of angry mist. He split every piece of wood with one swing but at no time did he grunt.

  I watched him for several seconds, wondering how to approach him, how to broach the subject of the death of several prostitutes without being too accusatory. Especially for a recently retired cop, he looked as fit as a recent graduate from the academy. He was also holding a very large ax. I wasn’t even sure if there was a story here, a sure sign that I might have been chasing another ghost.

  To get his attention, I cleared my throat, and if I surprised him, he didn’t show it. Without letting go of the handle, he set the ax head down on the ground and turned. His face was inquisitive but there was no animosity or anger, as I had been expecting. He was just curious about who this dude was in his backyard.

  “Are you Simon Meredith?” I asked.

  He blinked and swung the ax over his shoulder. “Who’s asking?”

  I introduced myself.

  “I don’t read newspapers,” he said with a grunt. “Most of it’s just crap. Even in the sports section no one knows what they’re talking about.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, pulling out my notebook and pen. That gesture got a reaction. His face narrowed into a scowl and he shifted the ax to the other shoulder.

  “I recently wrote a story about an old investigation into a group of police constables who were alleged to have blackmailed prostitutes for a number of reasons, and unfortunately, your name came up a number of times in that case and I was wondering if—”

  He slammed the ax into the stump so hard that the handle shook and quivered. He took one step toward me, his hands squeezed into fists so tight that his knuckles were white. A puff of steam rose off his body.

  I did my best not to step back because guys like him, guys who are prone to violent reactions, are very similar to dogs. If you run, then chances are they will chase you down and tear you to pieces. However, it also wasn’t smart to stare down an angry dog, but you had a better chance of getting hurt if you ran. I was also somewhat happy that he put down the ax.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said through his teeth. “So get the fuck off my property.”

  “You sure?” I said, trying to sound the way I thought another cop investigating him would sound. “It would probably be better if you told your side of the story. Without it, you might come out looking pretty bad, whether you did anything wrong or not.”

  He took a deep breath and I could tell that this was part of some anger-management training he probably was ordered to take. “Listen,” he said, each word sounding like the life was being squeezed out of it. “I told you I have nothing to say t
o you. I also told you to get off my property, and if you don’t do that within the next ten seconds, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

  This was a sign that I should have just walked away from this guy, because he wasn’t going to comment on anything, and since he wouldn’t, there was no story here. But I couldn’t help myself. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Meredith?” I wrote some gibberish in my notebook, probably one of the worst bluffs in my life.

  “I don’t make threats,” he said. “And if you’re still on my property for five more seconds, you’re an official trespasser.”

  By the look on his face and the information I had about his background, I realized that was probably true. Meredith was one of those guys who didn’t worry about little niceties like threats. He acted, usually with violence. And the fact that he was a recently retired cop and I was here on his property without invitation made me understand that it was time to leave.

  I flipped my notebook closed and turned away. And though I did my best to play it cool and walked away as slowly as possible, without turning around, my heart danced in my chest and my brain told me to run as fast as I could because I was about to get an ax in the back of the head.

  * * *

  After that I decided the story was dead, at least for the moment. It would surface only when another body was found in a field or if something completely unrelated to my efforts broke.

  There was nothing more for me to do but to put myself back into the assignment mix, and write the stories that were the backbone of the print-journalist job, pieces that were relatively easy to research, easy to write, and didn’t create a tempest when they were published: stories about car accidents or minor criminal incidents, most of which got cut from the newspaper because of time and space requirements. The high of a major scoop was a wonderful experience but my run-in with Meredith convinced me that even addicts need a little downtime.