City of Crime

by Warren Court

  Coolie sat me down in a diner and got tough on me. “Why’d you pull him over?”

  “He was barreling back and forth across lanes without signalling.”

  “Don’t use barreling. Everything has to be technical. Exactly how many lane changes did he do?”

  “Three, I think. Three,” I said quickly, knowing that “I think” would have to be temporarily banned from my lexicon until after the trial.

  I referred to my notes. I had written it up in detail, three pages. They were probably the best notes I’d taken so far. Very thorough and clear. Even my handwriting seemed different, at least for the first page, then it started to slide into that illegible scrawl I had developed over the years. I had never learned to hold a pen right in school, could never get it. I could type, though. Best course I took in high school was typing. I kept it mostly hidden from other coppers. A cop who can type over thirty words a minute gets pegged for extra paperwork back at the office.

  “What made you think there was pot in the car?” Coolie said.

  “I could smell it.”

  “The drug guys said they couldn’t smell a thing.”

  “I had removed it by the time they arrived. The guy confessed he was carrying. For personal use, he said.”

  “Don’t add that. He confessed. That was enough probable cause to detain him and start going through the car.”

  “What’s going to happen to this guy?”

  “What do you care?”

  “If he gets knifed in prison, I’ll be responsible.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just a robot doing your job. He’s responsible. What do you think we are—babysitters? Guy is a criminal, a loser.”

  “You think he’ll roll on who sold him the drugs?”

  Coolie went silent. “No,” he said finally. There was something about Coolie’s response that bothered me, like he knew all about this guy, who he had gotten the drugs from, but was too scared to think about it.

  “How much do you think he’ll get?”

  “This is Canada,” Coolie said with a grin. “He’s looking at probation. Maybe even community service.”

  I’d heard that joke many times and knew it was not too far from reality, but I laughed along with my sergeant.

  “Two years less a day,” Coolie said. “He’ll be out in six months. He would have done only six months if he had owned up on how he got the car. The owner didn’t report it stolen. That’s why we jammed him for intent to distribute.”

  The morning of my court appearance I wore my number one suit, the one I wore to weddings. Dark blue pin-stripe. Conservative tie. Shoes shined high. I was nervous; this was a different environment for me. I was getting used to the car, the jail cells, the interrogation room on occasion, and traffic court. But this was criminal court. Someone was going away here. It was adversarial, just like all the rest, but it was different, more real.

  I waited in the hall to testify. When the court officer finally called me in, I was sworn in and I looked over at Don and his attorney. Don turned his head in my direction and nodded and smiled. Not a joking smile, a friendly one.

  When the Crown asked me questions, I stumbled a bit. I read my notes back but admitted one sentence was vague. I couldn’t remember how many times he’d changed lanes, whether it was from inside to outside or vice versa. I hesitated. Stuttered. Totally unlike me. When asked about Don’s confession to carrying pot, I deliberately flubbed it and said that I didn’t smell the pot until after Don confessed, which didn’t make sense and tore the probable cause apart.

  The attorney for Don shot up out of his chair and asked for the charges to be thrown out, based on my failure to accurately recall why I had pulled him over. Why I had detained him and searched the car. The judge looked at me, shook his head a little and dismissed the case.

  There were no whoops, no cheers or high fives. I didn’t even look at Don when I got up from the witness stand and walked out. The prosecuting attorney brushed passed me in the hall without speaking to me. Her assistant, the one who had briefed me, came over and shook her head.

  “You blew it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “Wanna get a drink and console me?”

  The assistant thought about it for a second. “I get off at five.”

  “Meet you across the street,” I said.

  I crossed the street to Stubby’s Sports Bar. The US Open was on. I grabbed a pint, then another and another.

  A man in a suit sidled up to me at pint number three. I saw him in the mirror. Said nothing at first. Swallowed the peanuts in my mouth and took another swig.

  It was Detective Mike Macintyre. Homicide. The cock of the walk. He ordered a pint and the bartender went away to pour it.

  “You fucked up in there,” Macintyre said.

  “Excuse me?” I said, feigning ignorance.

  “I was in the back of the courtroom. You’re not that nervous. Why’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t pull my dick, rookie. You were deliberately vague with that Crown attorney. You blew your own case and that guy walked.”

  “I think you’re mistaken, Detective. It wasn’t deliberate. Maybe I did get spooked.”

  Macintyre drained his pint and burped and said, “See you around.”

  “Thanks, Detective. See you around.”

  I finished my pint and left. Fuck the US Open, fuck the Crown attorney’s assistant, and fuck Don Kitcher.

  And fuck Mike Macintyre, cock of the walk.

  Chapter 22

  Daryl Strollop, my partner, was yelling and kicking the glove box of our cruiser as I drove like a bat out of hell to the hospital. He had been sliced by a junkie at the top of Jackson Square and rather than wait for an ambulance, I’d hustled Daryl down the two flights of stairs to our car and sped off. I had the lights and sirens going and weaved through what little traffic there was on an early Sunday morning at ninety kilometres an hour.

  Daryl had a field dressing around his arm that I had grabbed from the trunk before we left.

  “Dispatch, this is two four. I have a wounded officer; knife wound to the forearm.”

  “Acknowledged, two four. What’s your twenty?”

  “We’re en route to St. Joe’s.”

  It was only a quick one-minute ride up James Street and I made it in record time. Thirty seconds, I think.

  I wheeled into the emergency entrance the wrong way and shut my car off. I came around and helped Daryl out. He was wincing but would live. A nurse came running out.

  “What happened? What’s the injury?” she said.

  “Knife wound,” I said. “Some junkie sliced him.” Daryl’s wound was for the most part superficial but our biggest worry, his and mine, was disease. Infection. Hepatitis, perhaps AIDS. The nurse hustled him in and then another came and helped, blocking my access to Daryl. He didn’t look back as he was led through a pair of large swinging doors. I stood there for a second and then went over to the admissions desk, ignoring the room full of people waiting to be admitted. Some were moaning, hanging their heads down. One guy had his head full back, leaning up against the wall, a string of blood running down his face and onto his shirt. It was mostly the usual misfits and drunks brought in after a night at the bars. Cops trumped all that. Other than a few curses muttered under their breath, they did not complain.

  I went up to the counter and started talking to the pretty admitting nurse. She looked up, her face a mask of stone-cold boredom, at me in my uniform, which was slightly askew from the tussle with the druggie. I straightened myself.

  “My partner just got brought in. Knife wound to the arm. I have to fill out a form, don’t I?”

  I’d done this before. Broken tooth once. A dislocated shoulder. Everything was looked after and documented by the hospital officials for use as evidence later on if the suspect was apprehended.

  This had all started when we’d gone up onto the roof of the Jackson Square Mall, part of a regular beat. There were always druggies,
drunks and prostitutes up there late at night. Muggings were common.

  We’d started walking around the four-acre rooftop parkette and were circling back to the stairs when I spotted a huddled shape sitting in the corner by the concrete wall that afforded a view over Gore Park, the centre of downtown Hamilton. The figure didn’t look at us as we approached. I caught a whiff of urine. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman.

  “Hey,” I said, and we both flashed our lights on him. It was a man. Daryl splayed his light around the immediate area while I kept my attention on our subject. I moved in closer and tapped his foot with my shoe.

  “You can’t sleep here, sir,” I said, still not sure of the person’s gender. Then the figure had lifted its head and I saw a scraggily beard and the drawn face of a drug addict. A long-time one, at that, but one I didn’t recognize.

  “Sir, get up, please.”

  “Sir?” Daryl said, and snickered. The man started to stir. I hesitated a second and then moved in to help him up with a hand under his arm. It was bone thin. I got the man up and we got a good look at him. Ragged clothes, jeans and a T-shirt, and a stained and torn hoodie. All his clothes were threadbare. The man had on soiled canvas deck shoes and I saw one toe sticking out. No socks. His pants were rolled up and I saw scabies on his legs.

  I had gloves in a pouch on my belt, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off him or put my flashlight away to glove up.

  “Glove up, Daryl,” I said. I could sense something in the man, like a coiled spring. He was about to explode on us. Maybe some sort of druggie strength would come over him. I was getting ready to bop him one on the head with my flashlight, buffalo him like Wyatt Earp did in that movie.

  “Do you have ID?” I said. The man still hadn’t said a word. He shook his head and opened his lips to reveal a mouth of rotting yellow teeth. Meth addict, probably. His arms were covered by the sleeves of the hoodie; I couldn’t see any track marks.

  “Sir, you’re trespassing on this property. You’ll have to move on. Is there a shelter we can take you to?”

  The man mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “Fuck you, pig,” he said.

  “Right. That’s the way we’re going to play it. Daryl.”

  Daryl came in, gloves on, and grabbed at the man. I stood back, ready to swing.

  Daryl grabbed the guy by the arm and spun him around to the wall. The man was wiry, though, and he kept the swing going and came right around. Almost like he was double jointed or something. I saw the glint of a blade and saw it strike out like a cobra’s tongue. I didn’t see it cut Daryl, but I saw my partner stiffen up and wince. I came down hard with the flashlight, but missed and bounced it off the concrete abutment behind them.

  I swung again and nearly hit Daryl. The man was fast, faster than his earlier comatose appearance had suggested. He slipped free of Daryl’s grasp and I made to catch him but caught his hoodie instead. He pulled out of it in a flash and took off. Daryl was holding his arm. I went after the guy with the knife. He jumped over a concrete planter and I followed.

  “Dispatch, this is two four. Foot pursuit, Jackson Square roof. Man slashed my partner with a knife. White male,” I said, sucking in breath and trying to at least keep pace with the guy. He pulled ahead and sprinted to the other set of stairs. I let my radio flop free and put on some speed. I got to the top of the stairs and he was already gone. Fastest bugger I ever chased. I got down to street level. It was deserted. I couldn’t see which way the guy had gone.

  “Dispatch, he’s on James Street, north of Main. I’ve lost him. White male, twenty to thirty years old, green T-shirt and jeans. Yellow canvas loafers. Fast guy.”

  He could be right around here, hiding, I realized. The guy was a ghost.

  I ran back up the stairs. Daryl was halfway across the square, coming after me, holding his arm.

  “Where’d he get you? Let me see.” Daryl took his gloved hand away from the knife wound. It was a line of blood across his forearm. Not a bad wound. Might leave a cool scar. But it was the infection we were worried about.

  “Let’s go back to the car,” I said.

  We both hustled back; I took Daryl’s arm as we went down the stairs. I could hear sirens in the background, cavalry coming over the hill.

  “Dispatch, I’m going to need an ambulance at the south side of Jackson Square. Partner has a knife wound. Superficial, but he’s going to need the dose.”

  “No, not the dose,” Daryl said.

  “You want to get AIDS instead?” I said as I put the dressing on his arm.

  I saw a squad car pull up fast in front of us and two more coppers got out.

  “You got the description?” I said.

  “Yeah,” one of them said.

  “Here’s his hoodie. Let’s get a dog on him. He’s fast, but he’s probably still in the area.”

  “Holly shit, Strollop. You got it good,” one of them said. “Dude, ambulance is going to be a while. Huge fight down in the east end.”

  “Get in,” I said to Daryl. I opened the side door for him and he looked at me, confused, then got in.

  “You can’t leave,” the copper said.

  “Watch me. You catch this punk, save some of him for me.”

  I paced the floor of the emergency room in front of a row of pop machines. Two more emergency room patients were wheeled in; one was wearing a denim vest and had tattoos up his arms. He was unconscious and had his head wrapped in a huge bandage.

  “Dispatch, this is two four requesting update on suspect in police assault Jackson Square,” I said into my vest mike.

  Suspect has not been apprehended, the voice came back.

  I marched up to the admitting desk. “I want to see my partner.”

  “You can’t. He’s being worked on. It’s a sterile environment.”

  “I don’t care. I need to see him.”

  A woman came up behind the attendant. “Officer, step over here, please.”

  I reluctantly followed. We stood as far away from the room full of waiting patients as possible and she spoke to me in hushed tones.

  “We’re very busy in here tonight. It’s the summer, you know. I took a look at your partner’s report. He’s going to be fine.”

  “The guy who cut him—he was a scumbag,” I said, not bothering to temper my words.

  “We’re worried about disease.”

  “I know. He keeps telling us. We’ve started the necessary preventive measures to stave off infection. There’s nothing more you can do. Don’t you have to file a report?”

  At the mention of him being in good hands, I relaxed a little and took the woman in. She was a head shorter than me. Blonde hair pulled back in a respectable bun. She wore a white doctor’s coat.

  “Thanks, Doctor.”

  “I’m not a doctor; I’m the administrator for emergency.”

  “Jack Crouch,” I said, and offered my hand. She shook it.

  “Gloria Davies. I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “I’ve never come in to St. Joe’s, but it was the closest.”

  “Why didn’t you wait for the ambulance?”

  “We were thirty seconds away. I just made a judgment call. Listen, I have to get back to the scene downtown. When I catch the guy, are we going to run some tests on him to find out what he’s got?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. That would have to come with a court order, I believe. We can’t disclose his medical records without one. Why are you so sure he’s going to be admitted to a hospital?”

  “He sliced my partner. He’s going to the hospital.”

  “Oh,” she said, and smiled. “Don’t go overboard. You look too nice to be charged with murder.”

  “Oh, he won’t be getting murdered. Trust me.”

  I made it back down to Jackson Square in forty-five seconds. There were three cruisers in the area, one still at the stairs where Daryl and I had gone up to the upper deck and two more down the streets. I saw a canine unit,
a German shepherd straining at a long lead. I went up to the nearest copper.

  “What’s the word?”

  “We’ve been all over the area. Looks like your boy is gone. We gave his sweatshirt to the dog; he was on a scent for a while. Now I think he’s lost it. How’s Daryl?”