Ogrodnik

by Gary Coffin

Ogrodnik

  An Elliot Forsman Mystery (#1)

  An old man is brutally murdered while out for his morning walk on Mount Royal.

  Dissatisfied with the police investigation, his son, Elliot Forsman, is compelled to leave his criminology professorship so he can focus his fledgling PI practice on finding his father’s killer. Elliot and his partner, former policewoman Rivka Goldstein, track down the killer only to find themselves caught in a web of corporate conspiracy and hired mercenaries where even the local police cannot be trusted.

  Hopelessly in over his head, Elliot abandons the case in an effort to prevent further harm to the people closest to him. Soon after, he stumbles across information that rocks the very foundation of his beliefs and is forced to take up the investigation again. Knowing that he is outmanned, Elliot enlists a man from his past to help combat his adversaries, a man with a history of violence, who understands the deadly world that the mercenaries live in.

  Before justice can be served, Elliot must first save his partner from evil personified and overcome his own demons while doing so.

  The Elliot Forsman Book Series

  Ogrodnik

  In the Shadow of the Big Man (Coming Fall of 2016)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Grok Consulting Inc.

  All rights reserved. The scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the express written consent of the author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  Originally e-published in February 2016

  Current version (v2.0d)

  Cover Art by Grok Consulting Inc.

  A special thank you to my beta review team (whom I won’t name for fear of missing someone, but you know who you are). I could not have finished without your feedback.

  I will mention by name some of the team members who went above and beyond:

  Wife Kristina, thanks for not laughing at my first attempts

  Sister Donna, whose insight into the medical world of CROs and AROs was invaluable

  Shaun, Ray, Carla, Bev, Rick and Paul, who read the book more times than I had any right to expect

  Edited by Book Magic Proofreading & Copyediting

  For queries of any type, please use email gary.raymond.coffin@gmail.com or visit my website: www.GaryRaymondCoffin.com

  “Sometimes it takes a tragic event to propel oneself to greater heights.”

  The reluctant PI

  Thursday, March 31, 8:20 a.m.

  Hubert Forsman wiped the sweat from his brow as he crested the trail and looked behind to admire the view. It was his reward to himself for completing the climb. The path he hiked rose above the city just to the east of Montreal General Hospital and, beyond where he stood, to a patchwork of trails that explored the top of Mount Royal.

  He looked up at the morning sky; the clouds were the color of dirty wool punctuated only by the ghostly white silhouette of the sun trying in vain to punch through the overcast. Hubert looked southeast over the city toward the US border, his eyes drawn to the rows of housing that stretched down and out from the mountain as far as he could see. The uniformity of the countless buildings was interrupted by the bloated hulk of the dormant Olympic stadium in the distance. Its only purpose now was as a bleak reminder of the corruption and decadence of a past administration. To the south, through the jutting high-rises, he saw the flattened ribbons of farmland that covered the St. Lawrence River valley. It was, as always, a stunning view.

  Having regained his breath, Hubert turned and continued up the last few pitches on the trail, and at the last of the steep pitches, he slowed down again to savor the feeling of accomplishment. Once again, he had conquered the mountain. He knew the day was not far off when the mountain would win, when he’d give up and not make it to the top, or worse when he wouldn’t even bother to try.

  Hubert was turning a corner on the path, cinching the sides of his jacket together to keep out the cool breeze, when he saw two men walking along the trail toward him. At first, Hubert thought the smaller man must have been unusually short, but as they neared, he saw that the larger man was disproportionate. He was enormous, tall and thick bodied with a head like a bread box. Hubert often encountered people on the trails but knew instantly that these two were not out for a walk. He removed his glasses, folded them, slipped them into his shirt pocket and continued walking toward the fate that awaited him. His only hope was that his son would look for the clues he had left behind.

  The two strangers stopped when they reached the elderly man. The larger man stood off to the side looking around as if he were standing guard, and the smaller man asked, “Excuse me, sir. We’re looking for Hubert Forsman.”

  “That would be me. How can I help you?”

  No sooner had the words left his lips than a massive fist from the larger man crashed into the side of Hubert’s head. He went to the ground like a wet rag, and the smaller man looked questioningly at his enormous companion; was he dead already? All doubt was removed when the big man picked up a heavy, flat rock from the side of the path and crushed the elderly man’s skull. The smaller man found Hubert’s wallet, removed the cash and threw the wallet into the trees.

  The two men went back the way they had come, neither saying another word.

  Four weeks later.

  Elliot opened the fridge hoping that something would appear appetizing but already knew he was wasting his time. He was tempted to pull a Budweiser from its docking ring but decided against it. Not tonight, he thought. He took out a couple of slices of white enriched for a sandwich. The bread was starting to harden around the edges, so he tossed a pair into the microwave for a couple of spins before they were ready to receive two rounds of salami and a square of plastic cheese. He wasn’t terribly fond of salami or processed cheese but found that neither of them spoiled easily.

  He usually turned on the television when he got home even if he didn’t watch it. He found that the background prattle of a game show helped fill the quiet of an empty house, but he did not turn on the TV tonight. Now that he knew that the police’s investigation of his father’s murder would not provide closure, it was time to roll up his sleeves and get involved.

  He sat in front of the aquarium absentmindedly eating his supper while watching a legion of Black Tetras dart from side to side. Occasionally, the Tetra swarm would whiz close to the sucker fish, seeming to dare it to release its hold on the glass and join the chase. It never did. He realized that he was like the sucker fish. He’d been sitting on the sidelines doing nothing while the world moved on around him.

  Elliot had been rolling the events of last month around in his mind with no clear intent. He knew from experience that although he wasn’t consciously making an attempt to analyze the events of the murder, a part of his brain had been busy processing the facts.

  I need to wake up that part of my brain tonight. I need to let go of my hold on the glass and join the Tetras.

  Elliott pushed the empty sandwich plate aside and replaced it with paper and pen. The facts of the murder were sparse, but he jotted them down on a notepad anyway. He learned long ago that writing out the facts allowed him to organize his thoughts.

  - Dad was killed on his morning walk.

  - He usually took his walk between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m.

  - The murderer bludgeoned him to death in a location that was hidden from view and then took his wallet.

  - The murderer discarded the wallet and presumably took whatever cash was there.

  - The murderer did not take the credit cards.

&nbs
p; - The murderer did not take Dad’s expensive watch.

  - There were no witnesses. The police canvassed the area, but the only person who saw anything was a jogger who happened upon the body at approximately 9:10 a.m.

  - The police are calling it a crime of opportunity.

  - There is no known motive for anything other than what it appears to be—a robbery gone bad.

  Looking at the watch and wallet itemized on the list reminded him of the box of personal effects that the police had returned last week. He had opened it when it arrived to do a quick inventory of the contents; everything looked to be in order, so the box had been put aside. He fetched it and spilled the contents out on the table. The wallet looked as though it might hold some secrets, so he emptied it. There was the requisite plastic: credit, health, and other assorted ID cards. There were also a number of tattered business cards that looked like they’d been printed by Guttenberg. He ignored them. There was no cash or any of the hidden clues that he was hoping for, so he put it all back in the wallet and moved on. The other items from the box were a Rolex watch, his keys, his glasses and $3.45 in change. He picked up each item in turn, inspected it and silently asked himself if it made sense that his father would have this on his person at the time of his death. The Volvo key chain had four keys attached, and he idly rubbed a scratch on one of the keys with his thumb as he thought about what he would do with his father’s car. He decided that it wasn’t worth selling. He’d keep it for when his son came back from school to visit.

  The last item he picked up was his father’s glasses. He wondered why they weren’t broken. He would have expected them to be crushed given the violent manner of the murder, so he pulled Detective Renaud’s business card from his own wallet. Detective Renaud had been assigned to his father’s murder, but Elliot also knew him as one of his students in a Logical Deduction course that he taught at the university.

  Yves Renaud was a short, wiry man, who dressed as sharply as the part in his hair. He was a good detective and someone Elliot trusted without question. It irked him that he had come up with the “crime of opportunity” scenario for his father’s murder, but Elliot understood the position the city police were in. Understaffed and overworked, their mandate was to close as many cases as possible. In order to be successful, they focused on crimes that provided the best chance for resolution. The lack of evidence, in this case, dictated their choices. He didn’t agree with that strategy, but then, nobody asked him.

  When they last parted ways, Detective Renaud gave Elliot his card and told him he could call him anytime if he had questions. Elliot had a question, so he called.

  “Oui, Allo,” Yves Renault answered.

  “Hello, Yves. Elliot Forsman here,” he said and without waiting for a response followed with, “you know that your investigation was bullshit.”

  Elliot caught him off guard with that jab, and Yves hesitated for a moment before replying, “Hello to you too, Elliot. Yes, I’m doing fine. Yes, the wife and kids are also fine. Thank you for asking. Now that we have put the pleasantries aside, is there something I can do for you? Oh, what’s that? You’d like to comment on the way I handled your father’s investigation. Please go ahead and tell me what you think.”

  He sounded more than a little put off by Elliot’s terse analysis. “Just yanking your chain, Yves,” Eliot replied to defuse the situation.

  “Well, for the record, the department determined that there wasn’t enough evidence to warrant looking any further than we did.”

  “And off the record?”

  “Off the record…” He started and Elliot knew he was calculating how much he could say.

  “There was pressure from above to stop pursuing the investigation and wrap it up quickly.”

  “Who would have the juice to make that call, and why would they do it?”

  “The explanation I got was that they wanted me back on the Gangs and Guns program. A number of street gang members have been killed over the past couple of years, and none of the competing street gangs is taking credit for these murders. This has the gangs pointing fingers at each other, and the entire situation could blow up if we aren’t careful. I’m not sure who gave that order, but it would be someone far above my pay grade.” The detective paused to let it sink in. “So you call me at home, in the evening, just to bust my balls? At least, you could have done it during the day while I’m on the job.”

  “Sorry, I got sidetracked. I was really calling because I have a question about Dad’s murder. I was going through his personal effects, and I see that his glasses are not damaged. Did they fall off during the struggle?”

  The detective paused for a moment, and Elliot imagined him looking toward the ceiling and squinting to squeeze out an accurate recollection. “No. No, we found them in his shirt pocket zipped inside his jacket.”

  “I see. That explains why they weren’t broken. Sorry to bother you at home, Yves. I was just curious,” Elliot replied wanting to finish the conversation quickly.

  Before he could hang up, Yves interjected, “It sounds as though you’re going to investigate the murder on your own. This isn’t one of your schoolbook scenarios. This could take you down a dangerous path, so I caution you to be careful.”

  “Good night, Yves.”

  “If you think I can help, call me.”

  “Good night again, Yves.”

   Elliot sat back in his chair and processed what he just learned from the detective. Dad was almost blind and could not function without his glasses. The killer would not have taken the time to put them in Dad’s top pocket and then zip up his jacket so that means Dad must have done it shortly before the murder. Why would he do that?

  Elliot was starting to form a mental image of what may have transpired on the mountain that day and had no doubt that the police investigation had come up with the wrong theory. Now that the seeds of doubt had been sown, it was time for him to shed his professor’s cap and do the job that he’d been preparing to do for most of his life.

  He needed to know what his father had been involved with in the days and weeks prior to his death. His father’s house was a good place to start looking, but he decided it was too late to head over that night. There were a few things he wanted to do before going to the house, so he planned an early morning start, went to bed and thought about tomorrow’s plan.

  I grabbed the back stay line to steady myself against the wind and shielded my eyes from the salty sting of the ocean spray. The cold wind whipped across the water and tore at my clothes in desperate snatches.

  A faint protest of birds in distress hung on the wind and, although they were distant, I knew their calls were meant for me. The pallid sky yielded no clues as to their source, so I abandoned my skyward search and turned my gaze downward to the sea. My small boat plunged into a trough, nearly sending me overboard and, as I regained my balance, I found the source of the cries. It was not birds after all but the soulful cries of a female body floating before me, begging to be saved. I lost sight of her when she dipped into another trough, and when she crested on the next wave, I saw it was my wife, Sarah. The absurdity of the situation struck me. Sarah was dead, but I put that thought aside without further analysis in order to fulfill my duty. Our eyes locked as I yelled her name and, with hand extended, she bobbed within reach. Our fingers were only inches apart, but despite my best efforts to close the gap, we came no closer. I watched in horror as she slid by me on the next wave and then slipped below the surface, only her outstretched hand now visible. I tried in vain to jump in, to swim after her and drag her back to safety, but my legs would not obey; I was rooted to the boat, unable to move. When the hand disappeared behind the next swell, I let out a tormented cry.

  Elliot bolted upright in bed filling his lungs in frantic intakes and waited for the palpitations to ebb. The face of the clock stared out from the night table blinking 6:20 a.m. Not bad, he thought. He often awoke from his nightmares in the middle of the night. At least today, he wouldn’t
have to pretend to go back to sleep; it was already time to get up. There was a time not so many years ago when his nightmares were the exception. They gradually became more frequent and now, especially since the death of his wife three years ago, they were the rule. The visions that haunted his dreams involved different people and places, but they all shared a common theme. He understood what they meant and why they came to him. He just didn’t know how to stop them.

  He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and looked in the mirror. He had to duck down to see his entire head. He was tall but not unusually so. The mirror placement had been a compromise between his six foot three body and Sarah’s five foot two. He wondered why he hadn’t yet re-adjusted the mirror.

  His boyish good looks still existed if one looked past the weathered mask that life had started to cover his face with. The dark brown hair that once matched the color of his eyes had softened over the years to a shade that was more like that of a tarnished penny. A few years ago, his hairline had started its slow and relentless march away from his face, and it seemed to him to be gathering momentum. The defiant hairs around the temple that refused to retreat were turning grey as if his body were telling them fallback or die.

  Despite feeling good this morning, he looked tired and overdrawn. The man staring back at him in the mirror had carried too much baggage for too long, but he also saw a spark that wasn’t there a few days ago. The idea of leaving school and investigating his father’s murder had ignited a fire somewhere deep within.

  A shower seemed like a waste of time, so he brushed his teeth, wet his hair, dressed and stopped for a McCoffee on the drive over to the base of Mount Royal. Elliot found a parking spot close to the starting point of the trail that his father had walked up on the last morning of his life and started to climb.

  He felt the strength in his glutes as he powered up the steep stairs and refused to slow down until he fell into a regular cardio rhythm. By the time he reached the top of the trail, he was breathing heavily and wished there were more stairs to scale. The three times a week he went to the Karate dojo kept him flexible and in reasonable shape, but he needed more to really push himself. For years he had been an avid hiker. He, Sarah, and Jake would often travel to destinations that offered demanding hiking trails. Some trips were as near as the Laurentian mountains directly to the north of Montreal and some as far away as Europe or South America. He’d forgotten how much he relished those hiking trips and thought about how much his life had changed over the past few years. He also came to the realization that just because some things he used to cherish were no longer in his life, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t pursue his own desires.