by Joan Boswell
“No. I’m not into plants,” Ian replied without giving her any indication of what he was “into.” Rhona liked to know details about a partner’s private life, of their likes and dislikes. Ian was not “into” revealing and sharing.
After they parked, they walked along Carlton Street and chose one of the diagonal paths that cut through the park’s green space. A woman sitting on a bench ignored them as they passed. She pushed a sleeping baby in a stroller back and forth with one hand as she read a book. When addressed, she frowned and pointed to her lips. “He sleeps very lightly,” she whispered.
Rhona whispered her questions. “No idea,” the woman murmured and returned to her book.
They next encountered two middle-aged women zipped into nylon anoraks and lugging shopping bags who smiled at them.
“Could we have a word?” Ian said as he showed his badge.
The two looked at one another before they nodded their agreement and indicated a nearby bench, empty except for an old man perched on the end clutching a paper-wrapped parcel with an open, green glass bottle protruding from the bag. The women set their carryalls down.
“Police,” the shorter of the two said, and her eyes were bright.
Whatever these women’s backgrounds, unpleasant run-ins with officialdom had not played a part. “Do you live in the area?’ Rhona asked.
The second shopper waved an arm toward Sherbourne Street. “The Rackley Arms apartments,” she said.
“We’re investigating the deaths of several murdered men,” Rhona said. “We’re questioning people who live in this neighbourhood.”
After an unspoken communication passed between them, the short one spoke. “Druggies. There are druggies everywhere. Too many.” Her brow furrowed, and she lowered her voice. “They’d kill you for a quarter just to buy drugs.” She leaned toward Rhona, “We don’t go out at night. Never.”
It was unlikely that the men had been murdered in broad day light. Possible, but not probable.
“We don’t know nuthin’ about murder. Just two old women trying to stay alive,” her companion stated, hooking her hand through her bag’s handle and pulling it toward her.
“Sorry.” The short one adjusted her head scarf and shrugged. “She’s right—we mind our own business.”
The detectives next encountered a dogwalker attached to five canine charges and armed with a large plastic bag filled with more plastic bags. Obviously the pack’s alpha dog, she led the way and the assorted dogs trotted along side by side, intent on their outing. When Rhona approached her, the woman waved her away, “No time to talk. Can’t stop. Have to get these dogs home and pick up the next crew.”
Further inside the park, a man of indeterminate age, wrapped in a filthy, once-beige greatcoat, lay sleeping on a ragged tarp laid under a tree. When Rhona and Ian approached, the combined smell of alcoholic fumes, unwashed clothing and neglected personal hygiene forced them to catch their breath.
“He’s out of it,” Ian said. “Doubt if he can tell us his own name, let alone who killed the men. Maybe we can talk to him later.”
Rhona agreed, and they marched on. Not far from the man, they saw a woman with a red bandana covering her hair occupying a bench. She had spread her long, voluminous red skirt and positioned herself and a large flowered carpet bag featuring vivid pink peonies to make it impossible for anyone else to sit without asking her to move the bag. A tall, thin man of indeterminate age who had been talking to her slunk away before the two detectives reached the bench.
Knitting needles clicked and a purple scarf grew longer as they watched.
Rhona flashed her badge. “We’re police officers, and we’d like to speak to both of you,” she said to the man’s departing back. If he heard, he didn’t acknowledge Rhona’s request but kept walking. Rhona thought about following but decided against it. Instead, she focused on the woman.
“We’d like to speak to you,” she repeated.
“What about?” the woman answered in a heavily accented voice.
Might as well get to the point. “About the men who’ve been murdered in the neighbourhood,” Rhona said.
“I know nothing,” the woman said, swinging away from them and rummaging in the carpet bag.
“We aren’t finished.” Rhona moved to stand directly in front of her.
The woman continued to dig in the bag’s depths.
“How often are you in the park?” Rhona persisted.
The woman mumbled something.
“I didn’t hear you. What is your name?”
“Katerina,” the woman shouted. “Police persecution. All the same. Czars, Communists, KGB—stinking rotten rats.” At this, she raised her eyes. “Arrest me. Beat me. They did.”
Rhona stepped back. “Madam, this is a murder investigation. We expect citizens to cooperate. We are not the KGB, we are ordinary Toronto citizens like you.”
“They say that. Not true. Not true. I know what you do.” Her eyes narrowed. She pressed herself back against the bench. “I know. You go after woman like me. Not criminals, not drug dealers, not Mafia. I know nothing.” She sank back.
“Madam, if you are here in the park every day, you may have seen more than you think you have. We want to know who else is here regularly. Are there nurses or social workers who come to the park and help people?”
Katerina grabbed the half-finished scarf and pointed both needles at them. “Social workers—they try put me in home. To give me pills. I tell them—go to hell.”
Clearly this woman wouldn’t give them information, although she likely could identify the park’s regulars. Given the references to pills and social workers, Rhona categorized her as one of the many mentally ill people who drifted through the neighbourhood caught up in their delusions. Her references to the KGB told Rhona that the woman’s experiences had given her a grudge against the world in general and police officers in particular. Maybe asking her what she did with the knitting would calm her down.
“That’s a lovely scarf. Do you make many of them?” Rhona asked.
“Why tell you?” Katerina shrugged. “Yes. I make and give away. People need, and I give.”
“They must be very happy to have them. Thanks for talking to us. If we come back, you’ll remember that we are citizens just like you, won’t you?” she said.
Katerina, whose needles flew again, said nothing.
Their approach to the pigeon feeders sent clacking crowds of birds heavenward and annoyed those scattering bread and seed on the ground. Neither the bird lovers nor anyone else frequenting the park offered anything like a lead.
“The daytime people aren’t too helpful,” Ian said. “We should come back at night.”
“Definitely a park with a bipolar personality.”
“Benign by day, dangerous at night,” Ian added.
Few men hung around outside the Salvation Army hostel, and fewer still had anything to offer.
“Let’s come back when there’s a big crowd, just before they open the dining hall for dinner,” Ian said.
“Good idea,” Rhona agreed.
“Right now we’ve got time to visit Danson’s apartment,” Ian said as they drove toward the station.
“Yes, we need to figure out how his DNA got on the brush if the body isn’t his. His apartment may tell us.”
“Do we have time to eat?” Ian said. He added, “I’m always hungry. Always have been. My mother used to say I had a tapeworm.” He patted his stomach. “Doesn’t matter how much I eat, I never gain.”
Rhona envied his ability to chow down like a stevedore and remain rail-thin. She agonized over every morsel she put in her mouth and fought a constant battle to maintain a reasonable weight.
“The cafeteria’s open. You can eat a revoltingly calorie-laden meal, and I’ll have a salad.”
Ian laughed. “Don’t hold me responsible for my genetic makeup.”
After a quick lunch, they set out for Danson’s apartment. Inside his front hall, they absorbed the ambiance.
“Wasn’t he tidy?” Ian said.
“Candace was right—the perp wasn’t a mugger, or he would have been in here cleaning out the place before Danson hit the ground. I’d say we can remove robbery as a motive,” Rhona responded.
They did a walk-through.
Ian opened the door of the second bedroom. “Fuck,” he said.
Rhona peered into the room. “Jesus, I’m not admitting to anyone that we never asked if Danson lived alone. What the hell were we thinking? No wonder the DNA doesn’t match.”
“Well, his sister never mentioned anyone, and initially we didn’t seriously think her brother might be the murdered man, did we?” Ian responded.
They looked at one another. Without a word being said, Rhona knew neither one would admit they’d missed asking the right questions.
“His sister was right, wasn’t she? She’ll be a happy camper, even if she doesn’t know where he is,” Ian said.
“Maybe, maybe not. Since the DNA originated here, maybe we can assume it belonged to this other guy, whoever he is. If he’s dead and Danson’s disappeared, where does that lead us?”
“With Danson in the frame as the killer?”
“Certainly a possibility. Let’s find out who the other guy is.”
“One second.” Ian flipped up his hand, palm towards Rhona. “This is my first case in homicide. We have Candace’s permission to search for info about Danson, but not about this guy. Is that okay?”
“A technicality. She gave us the keys.”
“As long as we aren’t compromising evidence,” Ian said. “I’ve had enough experience, and so have you to know how important it is to go by the book when collecting evidence.”
“Right now we’re not after evidence, we’re trying to identify the second man and see what connection he has to Danson. All straightforward and above board.” Rhona raised her shoulders and spread her hands. “We don’t even know if whoever lives in this room is a guy.”
Ian opened the cupboard door and waved an arm at the contents. “Unless it’s a cross-dressing woman, I think we can assume it’s a male?” He left the door ajar and swung back to face Rhona. “I don’t want to be a pain in the ass about this but hasn’t the situation changed? Now that we know about Mr. X and can presume the DNA is his, shouldn’t we get a warrant to search? His sister did provide the keys hoping we’d locate her brother. Now he’s a ‘person of interest’.”
“Exactly right. We’re even more anxious about finding him. In order to do that, we need to know all about his life,” Rhona said. Was Ian going to be a nit-picker, a do-it-by-the-book kind of guy? It would be understandable—he didn’t want to blot his copy book on his first case, but it would be tiresome.
Ian shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure you’re right. But if we do turn up something incriminating, we are out of here and back with a warrant.” Ian’s tone of voice told her there would be no question about this.
Moving away from the cupboard, Ian plucked the shaving kit from the bureau. He rifled through the contents. “Take a gander.” He held up drug paraphernalia. “Maybe it’s the lead we’re looking for. The identified dead men had a connection to the drug trade, didn’t they?”
“True. Small-time users and no mutilation. Doesn’t seem likely there was a link. We need to know why the guy’s face was smashed and his fingers clipped. It’s odd that our man left without his stuff. Maybe he didn’t intend to be gone long. We should be able to get confirming DNA from something in there.” Rhona tapped the shaving kit.
“Nothing with his name on it,” Ian said.
“No. Let’s try the computer.”
But as Hollis had, they found they needed a password.
“It won’t be a problem downtown,” Ian said as he shut it down.
“His computer will provide information, but whether it’s relevant, only time will tell,” Rhona said. “While we’re here, let’s see what info we can root out about Danson and this other man. I’ll do the bedroom, you take the living room.”
In Danson’s bedroom, she zeroed in on the cell phone plugged into its charger. She punched the keys, read the screen and called to Ian. “Candace phoned a number of times. We’ll follow up on the phone book entries—see who he contacted frequently. I’d like to pull his cell phone and his regular phone bills—and take them along, but to be on the safe side and make you happy, we’ll get a warrant.” She left the phone and strode to the living room, where she tried Danson’s computer but found once again that she needed a password. They’d take this machine as well as Gregory’s to the techies.
Ian, bent over an open drawer in the filing cabinet, raised his head. “What about telling Candace her brother might not be the victim—it’s cruel to leave her believing he’s the dead man.”
Rhona’s phone rang. She snapped it open. “You’re sure?” she said before she thanked the caller and snapped the phone shut.
Ian raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“The lab. The dental records don’t match Danson Lafleur’s.”
“More good news for Candace,” Ian said.
“If he was involved with the murdered man, it isn’t good, but we’ll allow her to enjoy the relief of knowing the body in the morgue isn’t her brother. She won’t be home from work. First, we’ll case the Salvation Army dining hall. After dinner we’ll drop in on Candace and share the good news.”
“We’ll also see what she knows about the roommate we didn’t know existed.”
“Without confessing that we should have asked if he had one,” Rhona said with a grin.
Back in the car, they headed downtown to the mission. This time Rhona drove, even though her hip continued to hurt. She was glad police cars had automatic transmissions —cops had enough to think about without having to change gears. In city traffic, that wasn’t much fun.
Her own car had manual—she’d chosen it because she loved shifting up and down, accelerating from zero to who knew what in minimum time. In her weaker moments, she pretended she was a race car driver and, when she was alone, made appropriate noises and commentary as she drove. She shook her head—sometimes when she thought about the things she enjoyed and those that amused her, she wondered if she wasn’t suffering a severe case of continuing adolescence. “An overgrown kid—that’s what I am.”
“What did you say?” Ian asked.
Rhona realized she’d spoken aloud. “Just thinking that in many ways I haven’t grown up. I enjoy the same things I did when I was seventeen.”
“Like what?”
“Driving fast. Pretending I’m on a race track.”
“I’ll never admit I said this, but I still get excited when we turn on the siren and drive like crazy. It isn’t cool, but I enjoy the adrenalin rush, knowing something serious is going down,” Ian confessed.
Conspiratorial grins flashed between them.
Rhona could have double-parked outside the mission but chose to slot into a small space on Queen Street. They walked back to the Queen and Sherbourne intersection and waited for the light to change. She’d been right. A kaleidoscope of men formed and reformed outside the hostel.
Pausing gave them time to examine the crowd. What stories these homeless men could tell, from simple bad luck, lack of education to mental illness and drug and alcohol addiction. With a helping hand, a tiny minority climbed back to the working or middle class. These few were men with a sense of self-worth, who believed they had something to give, that they’d had a bad break. Others had no illusions. This would be their life until they died.
Rhona hated the laws that forced the mentally ill onto the streets, where they didn’t take the meds that offered them hope for a more mainstream life. She knew the stinking, noisy tenements where they lived. The exploitation they endured. Vocal liberals screamed that no one should be forced to take medication or be kept in institutions. These poor souls had freedom of choice.
Big deal. She’d bet the majority of righteous liberals had never seen what their det
ermination to defend individual liberties did to these helpless, unmoored souls. Enough. They were here to see what they could learn. These men, many of whom were addicted to drugs and alcohol, had to be unnerved by their peers’ deaths.
They surveyed the crowd, now shuffling into a ragged line. Time to ask a few questions.
Rhona approached a clean-shaven young man. She’d bet he’d once been a carpenter or skilled tradesman. “Excuse me, we’re looking for information.”
The young man met her gaze. “Sure.”
“What talk have you heard about the men who were murdered in the area? We’re eager to know if there are rumours circulating about the killer?”
He shook his head. “Only been in Toronto a couple of days. Been up in Kirkland Lake looking for work. Can’t help you.” He edged forward then stopped. “A guy named Preacher Peter might tell you something—he knows everyone.”
The next man in line was swathed in a dirty khaki military overcoat that was far too hot for the autumn evening. Matted grey hair straggled over the collar. He pushed a tattered hockey bag ahead of him with a worn-out boot. Rhona tapped him gently on the shoulder.
“Fuck off,” he muttered without knowing who was behind him. Ian cut off a tiny man shambling toward the line and put his hand on the man’s sleeve. “Excuse me, can you help us?”
He froze. “Cops,” he said.
Ian didn’t deny it. “Where can we locate Preacher Peter?”
“Don’t know nuthin’,” he said, shrugging off Ian’s hand.
“This isn’t productive,” Ian said to Rhona. “Let’s talk to someone on the staff.”
“Okay. They hear about what’s going on. Unfortunately, even though they have information, they don’t always pass it on when they should. Protective instinct or something.”
At the head of the line, the crowd surged forward, pressing those at the front against the door. Rhona refused to be squashed in the crush.