Lou had let paranoia beguile him. No one had been out there on Hope Street sitting in a black van with tinted windows. The Mafia was not watching the house. Surely they’d lost interest, the ringleaders having absconded, probably to Colombia. They’d obviously decided to cancel their ridiculous fatwa on an honest, objective journalist who’d reported the facts with no ill intent toward anyone.
He drove on slowly, in the throes of dilemma, worrying about the roads icing over if he didn’t get moving — the temperature had already dipped below freezing. He was tired, frazzled. What were the risks of staying in town? He was having trouble weighing them. Don’t do anything dumb, he told himself.
He slowed by a park on his right, an outdoor rink where preteen boys were playing hockey, their parents watching, chatting, laughing, drinking from Thermoses. Lou was transfixed by this heartwarming Canadian scene. He parked in a gap between the ubiquitous SUVs, and looked yearningly out the windshield, then turned the engine off and got out for a closer view.
A minor blot on this holiday tableau: a pissed-off eight-year-old girl demanding ice time. Clutching her skates, complaining to her mother, who was urging patience.
He caught her name, Betsy, spunky little Betsy, who showed a definite lack of patience when one of the boys, a smart alec, whizzed by with his stick raised and made a kissy face at her. “Sexist pig!” she shouted.
Lou had to laugh. DR. JOY’S TIPS ON LIVING STRESS-FREE. Add one more: Sit for an hour each day in front of a playground. He lingered for a while, watching the game, as the smart alec potted a couple, showing finesse, maybe a future all-star. Lou should be teaching little Logan how to skate. Which would be easier if he knew how.
Suddenly, with a rush of sadness, he realized that this idyll had to end, that he must jettison his daydream of returning to Celeste and family. It took all his resolve to break free, but he pulled out. He was going home. Robert O’Brien had a life there. A house on Main Street. Friends.
The playground gave way to empty parkland on his right. He had not advanced a block before he found himself overtaking the same little girl, Betsy, who was stomping down the roadway with her skates, obviously still in a temper. No sign of her mother, and no way he was going to offer her a lift — that threatened all sorts of awkward scenarios.
Suddenly he went tight. His heart was pounding. He was in cardiac arrest . . . no, something else, a doomy voice in his head, a powerful premonition. Something bad is about to happen.
What had probably triggered this (he realized much later) was a niggle of concern about the girl, a subliminal awareness she was in danger. A quick glance at the rear-view caused the niggle to explode into full-blown fright and horror: not a hundred metres behind him, a brown van had pulled up beside Betsy. A man with a Santa beard was leaning through the open passenger door, passing her a gift-wrapped box.
Lou slammed on the brakes, and his tires squealed and threw up ice and slush as his Chevy swerved sideways into a roadside snow pile. He tried to reverse, wheels spinning. Then came utter panic: the pervert had grasped Betsy’s arm and was tugging her in through the passenger door. She was screaming. A man and a woman came running from a house across from the park, too late, the passenger door had slammed shut, the van already accelerating up the street.
Lou’s car finally, sluggishly, freed itself as the van approached, and he did another wheelie, into its path, forcing it to veer, and Lou got a split-second look at the driver’s bug-eyed, gaping face as his van plowed nose first into a five-foot snowbank.
Lou was out of his car in a shot, but slipped and fell, while the pervert struggled to free himself from the airbag, his false beard askew. He was short, bald, and terrified.
Betsy threw the passenger door open, wriggled free of the airbag, and leaped into a snow pile. Neighbours across the street were piling from their homes. Her mom, sprinting from the rink, was screaming. “Betsy! My baby!”
The wannabe child-napper squeezed from the van and scrambled up the dam of snow into the park. Lou pursued him, fuelled by adrenaline: the Green Flash, flying over the snowy field as if with wings. He brought him down with a leap and a leg tackle.
There was exultant hollering behind him: “He’s got him! Keep him there, pal, we’re coming!”
The bug-eyed scuzzo was already pleading innocence, with hysterical lies: “No, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t do nothing! She asked for a ride!”
The rest was a haze, later reconstructed, only vaguely absorbed at the time: being lifted to his feet by two men, one in a housecoat, another in a Shaw Cable jacket; being hugged by one woman, then another, then Betsy’s mom, sobbing with gratitude. All the while, a cell phone on speaker, the voice of a 911 operator giving quick, firm instructions.
Lou slowly realized that he had either broken his left wrist or sprained it, maybe when he’d braced himself against the dashboard. But he kept repeating, “I’m fine, folks, I’m good. Perfectly fine. Just a little wet.”
Meanwhile, Bug Eyes was sitting in the snow feeling sorry for himself, sobbing and burbling. He’d lost his Santa beard and found his glasses, now askew on his nose. Late forties, short, pudgy, prematurely bald.
A wuss, a candy-ass. Lou had finally met someone he could best in combat, but he wasn’t going to let that erode his triumph. He was feeling not just perfectly fine but massively, immeasurably jubilant.
He could hear sirens in the distance as he was hustled into a grand, multi-gabled home across the street. “My husband’s a doctor, you’re in good hands.” The woman wrapped him in a towel, offered dry clothes and a shower, then deferred to her husband: “Leave him as is, darling, until the police come and take photos.”
He poured Lou a tot of an excellent Scotch before checking his wrist. “Likely a simple sprain. A sling will do for now. You’ll need to get it X-rayed though.”
There was a knock at the door, and a woman in uniform came in, followed by a man in plain clothes. Geraldson, or something like that. “Major Crimes,” he said. “And this is Constable Mickelwump,” though Lou wasn’t sure if he got that right either. She began taking photos of him once his arm was in a sling.
Geraldson: “Can I shake your hand, sir?”
“My pleasure, Officer.”
“I don’t think we got your name.”
“Uh, Rob, my name is Rob. Rob O’Brien.”
“Well, Rob, you are now a national hero.”
THE CLIPPINGS FILE
CBC News, Saturday, December 28, 6:00 p.m.
CALGARY — The mystery man known as Rob O’Brien, hailed as a hero for thwarting a child kidnapping by an alleged pedophile, has disappeared.
Shortly after 3:00 p.m. today, O’Brien was driving through a pleasant, upscale Calgary neighbourhood, when he spotted Betsy Loewen, eight, being pulled into a van.
In what seemed an outtake from a Hollywood thriller, O’Brien did a wheelie on the mushy street, forcing the van into a snowdrift, then pursued the suspect on foot into a park and brought him down. Neighbours rushed from their homes to help O’Brien subdue the suspect, who was then turned over to police.
But O’Brien vanished after he was taken to Calgary General Hospital to be treated for a wrist injury. At last report, his 1993 Chevrolet Cavalier with Saskatchewan plates was still in the hospital’s parking area, being watched by two uniformed officers in a cruiser.
Meanwhile, Larry Orvil Jutt, 41, who gave an address in Butte, Montana, remains in custody and will appear in Calgary Provincial Court on Monday, facing charges of assault, kidnapping, and attempted sexual assault. Police sources say he is known to authorities in the U.S. They are seeking to confirm he is the Playground Prowler, as the man was dubbed, whose haunting of Calgary’s streets last summer had parents gripped with fear.
After his heroics, O’Brien was invited to the nearby home of Dr. Abram Jerrison, an orthopaedic surgeon, who examined his wrist. Police interviewed him t
here briefly but were persuaded to delay further questioning until X-rays were taken and any injuries dealt with. Before leaving, O’Brien changed from his wet clothes into dry attire from his host’s closet.
The press, along with a growing crowd of onlookers, was held back by police as Dr. Jerrison led O’Brien from the house. Although his left arm was in a sling, O’Brien was permitted to drive his own car. Dr. Jerrison backed his BMW from his garage and signalled O’Brien to follow him to the hospital.
There, X-rays were taken and proved negative for fracture. It is not known how O’Brien disappeared. When last seen, he was wearing a grey pullover and a tan winter jacket.
Police have remained tight-lipped about the missing mystery man, but according to Dr. Jerrison detectives had intended to interview him at the hospital. “I assigned him to a private ward to await them,” he said, “but somehow they never connected. I feel dreadful about that.”
A search of the Chevrolet revealed it to be empty except for a Saskatchewan Roughriders jacket on the front passenger seat and a toy train engine lodged beneath it. The plates have been traced to an auto mechanic business in Maple Creek, Saskatchewan.
Meanwhile, several residents of the small community of Porcupine Plain, south of Maple Creek, have contacted media to advise that O’Brien, whom they identified from TV news footage, is a local computer technician, well known and liked in the community.
Details of his background remain sketchy at this time.
§
CTV Breaking News, Saturday, December 28, 9:20 p.m.
CALGARY — News of his gutsy rescue of an eight-year-old girl from an alleged sexual predator riveted the nation. Then his sudden disappearance shocked the nation.
Now it has been learned that this hero has been living a double life. Rob O’Brien’s real name is Lou Sabatino, a former journalist with a 20-year career at the Canadian Press.
Switchboards were lit up and social media inundated today with messages from Sabatino’s colleagues in the media confirming his identity.
“There could be no mistaking him,” said Hugh Dexter, CP’s Montreal bureau chief, who watched video taken by CTV’s mobile unit, showing him about to drive to hospital for an X-ray of his left arm, injured during his sensational rescue of the girl.
Calgary police have continued to stonewall inquiries about his disappearance from the hospital, but it is known that he had been threatened by Mafia mobsters after writing a four-part exposé about their role in the Waterfrontgate bribery scandal.
That was published nationwide in early February. A week later, as he stepped from his Côte-des-Neiges home, gunmen opened fire from a passing sedan, barely missing him as he dove for cover.
He and his family — wife and two children — were then put under witness protection in Quebec. It is not known how or why he moved to Porcupine Plain, SK, where he has been living since June under the pseudonym Robert O’Brien.
Investigators appear to be working under a gag order from the Calgary Police Chief’s office, and have adamantly refused to join in speculation that the Mafia have finally caught up to Sabatino. Nor have they offered information about the whereabouts of his family, who are presumed to be still under witness protection.
§
The Canadian Press, Sunday, December 29
by Hugh Dexter, CP Bureau Chief, Montreal
He was one of the finest reporters I have ever been privileged to work with. Unassuming and mild — meek might be apt — but quick-witted, a sterling writer, and a formidable digger of buried truths.
The truths he unearthed early this year, published in a shattering exposé of organized crime on the Montreal waterfront, incurred the wrath of the mob. Last winter, they tried to gun him down. They missed.
And now the burning question is whether they have finally succeeded in silencing Lou Sabatino, my colleague and friend during his 20-year career with this venerable wire service.
It is one of the most extraordinary ironies imaginable that within an hour of his daring rescue of a young girl and his citizen’s arrest of her alleged assailant, he vanished without a trace.
It is no secret now that he’d been living under the alias Robert O’Brien, so I can disclose that I was one of a handful privy to his double existence. He and his lovely wife and two grade-school children were moved to a secure lodging in the Montreal area. They were a very close family.
Sabatino remained on the Canadian Press payroll until May, when, dispirited that he could no longer work at the job he loved, he asked for and was granted a leave of absence.
Sabatino was the consummate journalist. He began his Canadian Press career in the early nineties with a newly minted journalism degree, worked the rewrite desk in Ottawa, then spent many years covering national politics. On his transfer to the Montreal bureau, he
(See Missing Hero, page 2)
§
THE SIERRA FILE
Monday, December 30, 2:30 a.m.
Dear Arthur,
That you appeared startled and confused by my oral presentation of the events of Saturday was no doubt due to the fact I am less at ease with the spoken word than the written.
But it is important that you have this history clearly in mind for your bout on Monday with Mssrs. Cowper and Farquist, and to that end this weary late-night warrior has begun clacking away at his Olivetti, with a glass of good malt at hand.
So let us back up ten hours to a sunny, snowed-in afternoon, as your correspondent appeared at the door of Celeste Sabatino’s sister’s home on Hope Street.
You will recall that I was determined to make a last-gasp effort to coax Ms. Sabatino into making a public plea for her husband to come in from the cold. A press release, maybe even a press conference at which she would express her fears for his safety and proclaim her love for him and her desire for reconciliation.
Lucille Wong, the sister, met me at the door and introduced me to her husband, a well-respected geophysical engineer. I had looked him up and versed myself well enough in geophysics to express keen interest in his work, and we chatted pleasantly until he left for his study.
I was led through the bright, airy living room, where Lisa and Logan were playing with toys near a tinselled tree. Lovely, well-mannered children, who both shook my hand.
Celeste was waiting in a room at the rear of the house, now her studio, with ladies’ wear hanging along one wall and a work table covered with large sheets of paper and arrayed with cutting and colouring tools. On a nearby desk was a small, open gift box containing a diamond pendant silver necklace.
I accepted an easy chair beside a naked dummy. The chair was soft and comfortable but the mannequin unsettled me with her lifelike breasts and protruding pelvis. I was afraid I would not be at my best.
Lucille left to fetch coffee, while Celeste seemed anxious and wandered about, making small adjusments to her design wear.
All the while, as I tried to ignore the teasing nude, I made my pitch. A paean of praise and sympathy for her beleaguered, hunted, lonely partner, embellished with quotes from his love letter to her — which I observed on her desk, near the necklace.
Maybe I am not so ill-adept at the spoken word after all, because when I told her I believed she truly loved her husband, she replied with what seemed to be feelings long pent up, “Yes, I do. I do.” And at that point, she delved into a box of tissues.
Two coffees later, with Lucille’s aid, we had worked out a statement for the press. It concluded with the simple, ardent line, “I love you, Lou.”
Just then there was a commotion at the front of the house: Lisa and Logan were screaming, but not, I soon realized, in terror.
The two women bolted from the studio, and I followed. The children by then had burst from the house, and, as seen from the wide front windows, were bounding toward a beribboned child’s bicycle and two bulky canvas bags on the snowy lawn, all guarded by
a five-foot-tall panda bear.
The youngsters were yelling, “It’s Daddy! Daddy’s been here!”
But there was no sign of Daddy, no vehicle driving off. Lisa had seen a car, but just its rear as it disappeared from view. Not a big car, just a “car car,” maybe blue.
As I hurried to my rented Fiat 500, I called out to Celeste to keep her phone at hand. I was at a loss regarding where to go, and was roving aimlessly about the neighbourhood when I heard the advancing wail of police sirens. Shortly, I spied two police cruisers rushing along a nearby street.
I followed them and came upon a scene that has been well described by news media outlets — understaffed on weekends, their reporters were just pulling in just as I arrived. (My little Fiat made the newscasts, parked beyond the police barricade, but I saw no sign of my portly self.)
But I was busy being invisible, strolling about, listening to the excited chatter of neighbours, putting the pieces together.
Lou Sabatino was inside Dr. Jerrison’s home at the time, and when he was led out, his arm in a sling, and then got into his car to follow his host, it seemed likely they were en route to the Calgary General Hospital, only a few minutes away.
Fortunately I was able to wiggle my car out of the logjam of the curious. I rang Celeste as soon as I was underway, briefing her so hurriedly that I feared I was garbling my words.
Luck was with me, for I arrived at the sprawling hospital grounds in time to glimpse Dr. Jerrison walking Lou to the emergency wing.
I hate myself every time I do this, but I nestled into reserved parking, stuck my handicapped decal on the windshield, armed myself with a cane, and limped expeditiously after them, catching up as they arrived at the imaging section.
In the waiting room, I picked up a magazine — Horse and Rider, as I recall, “Stampede Edition” — and sat among several of my fellow injured. Jerrison had no trouble pulling rank and got Lou in immediately.
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