“Sounds about right,” he said. “The thing you have to understand about Randy is he’s no different than any other bully. He uses his size and aggression to intimidate people, but deep down, he’s chicken shit. His friends and that whore that follows him around give him confidence. All you have to do is take away his confidence and he’s got nothing, at least, that’s how it was when he came after me.”
“You?” Mark said, surprised. “He came after you too?”
Taylor nodded. “Right after I moved here, so we’re talking about grade school, but trust me, he was just as bad back then. For months I didn’t know whether to shit or wind my watch. Every time I turned around, there he was. It got so bad that I didn’t even want to show my face outside of the house.”
“So what did you do, I mean, how did you get him to stop?”
“Easy,” Taylor said. “I met him at the monkey bars after school and I put his fucking lights out.”
Nineteen
John too was seeing a few things that impressed him only from the senior Harrington. Up on the third floor, adjoining the small terrace where their host had appeared from when they arrived, Foster showed him what he called ‘the crow’s nest’. It was a small office with a big desk beneath a wall of thirty-inch monitors, each of them showing six different camera views covering most of the house and property. At a glance, John figured there were at least fifty camera views on the screens, far more than had observed on their way in. From a computer console on his desk, Foster could monitor the comings and goings of nearly every space in the house, bathrooms and bedrooms being the obvious exceptions. Added to which, confirming John’s suspicion, he could also open or close every exterior door in the house, sealing them with powerful magnets requiring nearly two-thousand foot pounds of pressure to force open, all with the click of his mouse.
John followed Foster out onto the adjoining terrace and, looking down over the rolling front yard, he did something he had never done before; he smoked a cigar. Surrounded by a dome shaped cupola, the cold night air coming in over the railing felt refreshing. He was halfway through the smoke when Foster popped the question.
“How are things going with the Paul Dushku investigation?”
John suddenly felt as if he were suddenly speaking to Foster Harrington the mogul of Ratcliff with political aspirations rather than Foster the genial host. But before he could launch into his explanation (the same one he had used dozens of times recently) of how he couldn’t respond or comment on the ongoing investigation, Harrington added; “I knew him pretty well you know?”
“I know he worked at your bindery,” John admitted.
“I used to have him up to the house, sometimes three or four times a week. His parents . . . ” Foster added, shaking his head.
“Yeah, I know,” John agreed. “I met them.”
“He was a good kid. I was trying to help him out, you know? Help him get out of that place and into one of his own. He was smart, a good worker and a good kid. He didn’t deserve to go out like that, tortured in the woods like some dumb fucking animal.” Foster winced and bit down on his cigar to stop himself, “Sorry,” he said inconsolably.
“Don’t be. Nobody deserves to go out like that, not even dumb animals.”
“I’ll tell you something else, those provincial cops aren’t doing a goddamned thing about it either! They think he got what he deserved, just because he was . . . ” Foster blushed, almost embarrassed to say the word. He was speaking of the dead boy with such reverence and genuine remorse over the loss of his life that John couldn’t help but lower his defenses a little.
“Because he was different?” John said. “I have to tell you Mr. Harrington, I’ve been at this for a long time, and the OPP is doing anything and everything that can be done.”
A tear rolled down Harrington’s cheek, which he swatted away with the back of his hand like an insect. The cigar clamped firmly between his teeth had gone out. He looked out over the town, an orange glow radiating from the far off homes and street lamps.
“Call me Foster. What kind of message are we sending if something like this goes unsolved?” he pondered wistfully.
“I know it’s a shock when it happens in a small community like this, but you and I both know that you can get in your car right now and drive for about three hours to places where kids Paul’s age are dying every single day. Many go unsolved. I know, because I’ve been there and I’ve seen the bodies and I’ve stood in the living rooms and informed the crying relatives.”
“But not here it doesn’t.” Blood rushed to Foster’s face in a torrent, he suddenly came at John, faster than expected from a man of his size, almost to the point where if Harrington was inclined to do so he could have easily laid John out before he had a chance to react. He stopped mere inches from John’s face, no longer the jovial host. “I know the people in this town. These are good people! They work hard, live their lives, raise their families and they deserve to be able to sleep at night without having to wonder whether or not their kids will ever come home again. They live here to get away from all of that!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” John said, carefully taking a step back and turning sideways out of habit. He didn’t think that Foster would become violent, but the speed with which the man had turned it on was disconcerting. “Regardless of how long we’ve been in town,” John added, “I’d still like to think we’re members of this community.”
John sensed that he was being sized up, for what he did not know. Both men stood still for what seemed like a long time. Foster was grinning slightly, but it was hard to read just what the man was thinking. With the better part of twenty years spent in law enforcement, two decades of dealing with skilled liars and manipulators, John didn’t find himself stumped very often. But the hair on his arms felt like they were standing upright and a chill had formed over his back. Something about this man wasn’t sitting right. Just to be safe, he wasn’t going to give Harrington the chance to rush up on him like that again, not ever.
“So why don’t we cut through the bullshit and you tell me why I’m here?”
Harrington smiled a little, his temper cooling. He let out a little chuckle when he looked down to his right hand and saw that he had crushed his cigar. He tossed it over the railing and turned back to the security room, “I like you, John,” he said sincerely. “This town needs you.”
John realized where he was headed and gave him credit for being so smooth in his approach. It was no small feat to pull off a soft sell a policeman, they share fine tuned radar that can detect bullshit miles away, usually.
“I’m not a Detective anymore,” John pointed out. “I moved up here with my son to get away from all that. I’ve got two years left before I’m eligible for my pension, after that, I’m done.”
“Given much thought about what you’d do after?”
“Not really,” John admitted. “I guess that I’ve always just thought I’d cross that bridge when I got to it.”
“A man with your experience would do well in the private sector,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, no offense, but what does a Constable pull down in a year, fifty, sixty grand? I know people working as consultants for some of my investors who are bringing in ten times that.”
“Must be nice,” John said, feeling a pang of envy.
Then Foster dropped his bombshell.
“Show the people of this town that you can protect them, and I promise you that the whole world is going to open up for you,” then Foster delivered the fatal blow. “You and your son.”
- - -
It was after 10 pm when Foster led him back outside to the Jeep and with the press of a button on his key-chain, all five bays opened, revealing both of their sons leaning over the hood of an old Mustang in the bay farthest from the house.
“Come on Mark,” John urged. “School in the morning.”
“You too, Taylor,” Foster said to his own son.
They hugged briefly. John was surprised to see his son showing
affection to another person, he would have been thrilled if he wasn’t so busy being devastated.
For the entire drive home, Mark chattered excitedly about all he had seen. He went on and on about how Taylor had asked him to help him restore the old muscle car and promised to teach him a few moves in Aikido in which he claimed to be a black belt. John half-listened about the amazing things he had seen, secret passageways and underground tunnels. On one hand, he was glad his son had made a new friend. On the other hand, he hoped that Foster’s son wasn’t making promises that he had no intentions of keeping, his son had seen enough disappointment as it was.
John let him talk. It was the most he’d said to him in months. For the first time since the move, he was acting like the boy that John had been missing so badly, and he couldn’t even enjoy it. He was too busy wondering why someone as wealthy and connected as Foster would move to a small town like this one.
Both of them fell silent as they made the turn up the drive way to their ‘house’. All their cherished belongings had never seemed so inadequate in comparison to how the Harrington’s lived. John had never really cared about possessions, things or property, but seeing the house now, the sum total of a lifetime’s labor and sacrifice, he realized that his son might be right after all; they had nothing. Their new home wouldn’t even qualify as a pimple on Harrington Manor’s ass. For the first time, he understood how his son had been feeling from the beginning.
Being poor sucked.
As Mark sullenly stomped up the ladder into his hideout and John retired to his room to get some sleep before tomorrow morning’s shift, something Harrington had said kept playing over and over in his head; I know guys making ten times that. That was half a million dollars on the low-side, a decade’s worth of work at his newly revised salary. He’d have to work well past his sixty-seventh birthday to make that much or he could chauffeur around one of Harrington’s investors for one year. But the money wasn’t the only thing that was giving him second thoughts, it was seeing his son, after everything he’d been through, finally opening up . . . making friends even. Granted, the Harringtons’ were richer than anyone they had ever known in Toronto (except maybe Audrey’s father), but from an intellectual standpoint, they were probably the closest to what Mark was used to that they could ever hope for. It was fortuitous, a lucky break after a long string of crushing defeats and painful heartbreaks.
The decision became clear, he really didn’t have any other choice. All it took to make up his mind was to imagine Paul Dushku’s anguished face he’d seen in the woods that day, and just for a moment, he imagined his own son in the victim’s place. That was the last straw.
Twenty
After a long day of interviewing people in Paul Dushku’s life, Sarah Cannon summoned her team to her motel room for a debriefing. Everyone had been given instructions to call her immediately should they learn anything that required action, she received no such call and her interviews hadn’t produced anything of real value either. Yesterday morning, while she’d been interviewing the victim’s parents, Tristan Cutler had interviewed the victim’s supervisor Chris Mason, and cleared him as a suspect on the basis of an airtight alibi. Twenty people were willing to swear that from the hours of 8-10 pm, Mason was at the local arena, playing hockey. After that, he’d gone home to change into his work clothes and walked through the employee entrance of the bindery and was caught on multiple cameras, entering at 11 pm and remaining there until 7am the next morning.
According to him, Dushku had been a model employee. He was always on time, a hard worker and quick to help out his co-workers without having to be asked. Darcy, Ian and Lewinski separately interviewed Dushku’s closest friends at the bindery and all three of the young men had said the exact same things; Paul Dushku was probably the nicest person they had ever met. He was friendly, funny, hard working and was always smiling and cracking jokes with his colleagues. Nobody could recall a single instance of Paul having so much as a disagreement or an argument with anyone, not ever.
Several hours later, the team drove out to the high school in Parry Sound. Although he’d actually dropped out almost two full years before, Sarah felt it was important to speak to his teachers and people reported to be among his friends if for no other reason than to gain insight into who the boy had been. It was there, surprisingly, that Sarah heard the first and only negative remarks about their victim. The school’s principal who insisted on being called either Ma’am or Mrs. Ross had a much different take on their victim.
According to her, Dushku was disruptive to the learning environment of his fellow classmates. Sarah had to bite her tongue as the woman described how she’d suggested that he should either transfer to another school, or seek professional help in dealing with what she called his ‘deviant and abhorrent lifestyle choice’. Then, when asked if any of the students had harassed Dushku, either verbally or physically, the woman had actually said; ‘People like him tend to bring it on themselves’. Sarah had been tempted to reach across the desk and slap the bitch in the mouth. Even her escorts seemed surprised by the woman’s callousness.
Although neither of them said much to her throughout the day, Sarah felt as if every move she made was being carefully observed and recorded, especially by the hotshot. There was no doubt in her mind that they were diligently reporting every word of her interviews back to McLeary, probably so he could take credit for any progress being made. Fortunately, under the circumstances, he’d have little to report.
Sarah splashed some odd smelling water on her face from the rusty faucet in the bathroom and dried her face with a towel that felt like a cheese grater on her skin. She needed a shower, badly. The motel desk clerk ordered them take-out from the local diner and the team ate quickly while they compared notes. Sarah made the mistake of ordering a steak sandwich and fries. She took two bites before noticing that the men on her team who’d ordered burgers or club sandwiches were already eyeballing it.
“I heard back from Behavioral Sciences,” Sarah said, setting the sandwich aside. “Based on the evidence, they think there’s only two possible ways this thing could have gone down. On one hand, in a small town like this, we could be looking at a simple case of a bunch of homophobic teenagers deciding to get together and kill this kid, but I’m not buying it. The ball gag, the wires, the acid . . . it’s too well thought out. I don’t think we’re looking for a gang of teenagers, I think we should be looking for one guy. And we’re talking about a bonafied sociopath, someone that didn’t even see Paul Dushku as a human being. He doesn’t see anyone at the level he considers himself to be at. They think that the depression in the leaves was caused by him sitting on the bucket of acid while he watched Dushku die.”
Ian spoke, his voice low and hesitant, “Any idea of how long that might have taken, exactly?"
Sarah wished she didn’t have an answer to that, but she did. “Around three hours.”
For a change, even Tom Lewinski cringed a little, and that was really saying something.
Sarah ignored their reaction and went on, “The guy we’re looking for is probably a full blown psycho, I’m sorry but there’s no other way to put it. I mean, he sat there on a bucket of acid and watched this kid burn. And the BS guys say that given the kid’s lifestyle, the ball-gag was probably used as much out of practicality as it was symbolic of what the killer wanted us to see. He could have used anything, a rag, a piece of clothing, a fucking tree branch . . . the type of person that does something like this does everything on purpose.”
“How about the cutting on the chest?” Tristan asked. “I mean, everybody in town knew he was gay, it was no big secret. Cutting that particular word into his chest seems like overkill.”
Sarah did her best to hide her pleasure; the boy was coming along nicely.
“They agree. They think that word, along with the ball-gag and the way he was bound, when taken into account with the kind of bruising and sexual injuries he had, suggests that both the victim and killer are likely involved i
n the BDSM lifestyle and probably knew each other. The perpetrator also has an obvious knowledge of forensics and how we conduct homicide investigations. He likely wore latex gloves and a mask, which explains why we couldn’t find any saliva or hair on the body. On the other hand, they found trace amounts of semen around his mouth and his anus but not enough for a DNA profile. BS isn’t sure what to make of that as of yet, it seems highly unlikely that an organized killer would be so meticulous about everything else and then leave his semen behind so it may or not be our guy’s.”
“What I don’t get,” Darcy said, “is how BS can label this guy as organized. I mean, rigging the wheel to come off, the location he selected and having the acid and everything does suggest an organized offender, but organized offenders don’t usually leave the body where it can be found.”
“I agree. I think it may have been an attempt by the killer to throw us off balance, to make us think we should be looking for a raving lunatic when we should actually be looking for the exact opposite. With that said, we know that the only thing that gets this guy off is inflicting severe pain upon others so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in the system for aggravated assault or even rape.”
Ian chimed in, scribbling notes in his pad for future reference, “How old of a guy are we talking about here?”
“They say we should be looking for someone between thirty-five and fifty-five, but don’t get too hung up on that just yet.”
Cutler was already reaching for his I-pad, “Want me to get the HQ running records on everybody we interviewed today?”
Sarah gave him a quick nod. “We can’t run the whole town for criminal records, we just don’t have the budget for that, so we’re going to have to be selective. In the meantime, we need to dig deeper into Dushku’s life. So, any thoughts?”
Sarah was giving everyone the chance to brainstorm and speak his or her minds, she didn’t always agree with their opinions but she always listened.
Rage: The Reckoning Page 18