Downfall

by Robert Rotenberg

  “Come on,” Melissa said, “we’re going to teach you.”

  “We have to stick together,” Lydia said, “and have some girl time.”

  That’s how her friendship with the two of them had started. They had secret code names that they’d had for each other since childhood and that they used when they were alone. Melissa was Mel, as in “melody.” Lydia was Lyd as in “put a lid on it.” They named her Nance as in “take a chance.”

  The game became their mutual touchstone. But with all that had happened, Parish couldn’t remember the last time she’d played it with either Lydia or Melissa.

  Melissa was looking down at her. Smiling. Hopeful.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, hauling herself up out of the chair and putting her hands up to her chest.

  “Look at me,” Melissa said. “A pretty little Dutch girl. And poor mother deprived of seeing her only child. I’m lovable, aren’t I?”

  Parish felt like saying, “The only thing Judge Tator loves is finding people guilty,” but instead she smiled and said, “Yes, Melissa, you are. Very, very lovable.”

  She straightened her back, opened her hands, put them up in front of her, and pushed them toward Melissa’s hands and together they began to play and sing.

  7

  Kennicott knelt down beside the body and let his eyes settle on the dead woman’s head. Then her neck. Her shoulders, arms, and torso. Breathe, exhale, breathe, exhale, take your time, he told himself. He’d learned this from Ari Greene.

  “The first time you see a body,” Greene had told Kennicott in his early days on the homicide squad, “don’t rush. Take it all in, every detail. This will be your only chance to see the body as the killer left it. Memorize it. A photo or video is not the same.”

  Kennicott’s eyes drifted down to the woman’s waist, her legs, her feet. Then he did it again, starting to inventory in his mind what he saw. The woman’s head was small, her hair was long, scraggly, and grey, her face was round, and her skin pallid and worn. At first glance she appeared to be quite old, in her sixties or maybe more. He zeroed in on the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, a reveal: it was the device that carnies at a circus used to guess people’s ages. There were few wrinkle lines. He looked at her neck, the second reveal. The skin there was smooth. She looked older than her age. His guess was that she was in her mid- to late forties. Living on the street had taken its toll.

  She was thin. And short, he’d guess about five foot three or four. Her shoulders were narrow, her arms had no muscle tone, and her fingers were callused and worn. Her fingernails were rough and bitten down to the cuticles. She wore no rings, no jewellery. Her legs were splayed out in a V-shape and her feet were unusually large for such a small frame.

  Even in her supine position, without lifting her head, he could see the back of it was bashed in. A pool of blood had sprung from it and dried on the rock. There was another gash to the top of her head, and he could see bits of glass stuck in her hair. Her body reeked of death and alcohol.

  Glass shards were scattered about on the rock behind her head. One of the bigger pieces had a Smirnoff vodka label attached to it.

  He sat back, closed his eyes, and let the picture of the murder scene and the dead woman settle into his brain. Stay calm. With his eyes shut, the sounds of the river valley came alive. The swish of water slipping over rocks, the whistle of the wind through the trees, and the odd tweet of a bird.

  Then, like changing channels on a TV, he pictured the body of Dr. LeBlanc, killed here in the valley two days earlier. Much was similar. Both had been found early in the morning, lying dead on the rocks, the back of their heads bashed in. Both reeked of alcohol, and at both scenes there were the shattered remnants of a Smirnoff vodka bottle.

  At first glance the LeBlanc murder had had all the hallmarks of a fight between two homeless men. Kennicott knew the case would get minimal play in the press: it only rated two paragraphs on page ten of the Toronto Sun, the city’s tabloid newspaper. Still he’d been careful in his press release to keep one distinct and disturbing detail secret.

  “Well, well,” said a booming voice that Kennicott recognized immediately, shattering the silence. “At least it’s not snowing.”

  Kennicott opened his eyes. Harry Ho, one of the top forensic detectives on the force, and certainly the most verbose, was standing on the other side of the corpse, his large frame hovering over the tiny dead woman. Ho, an old pro, had worked with Kennicott on many murders, including Dr. LeBlanc’s two days earlier.

  “Here we go again, Detective K.” Ho pointed to the glass shard with the label on it. “Looks as if there’s a vodka killer on the loose. Smirnoff man. Me, I prefer Grey Goose.”

  Kennicott looked at Ho but didn’t say a word.

  “A lot of glass to pick up.” He pulled a pint-sized vacuum out of his ever-present bag of tricks. The guy was an equipment junkie. “My latest toy. This baby will hoover up every little piece of glass.”

  Ho was a strange combination of self-styled stand-up comedian and ultra-nerd. Some detectives didn’t like working with him because of his non-stop, attention-seeking banter. Kennicott didn’t mind because he knew that Ho, despite all the quips and sarcasm, cared.

  “A woman,” Ho said. “This is going to cause a big stir, especially if…”

  Ho, who was remarkably agile for such a tall man, squatted down until he was at eye level with Kennicott. “Did you check yet?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Might be my lucky day. Let’s put gloves on.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out two pairs of latex gloves. Passed one set to Kennicott, put his on, and then gently opened the woman’s mouth.

  “Yep, I see it,” he said. “Here, hold her open.”

  Ho reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of thin forceps. Gently, he manoeuvred them deep inside.

  “There, hold her still, yes, good, I’ve got it,” he said, and pulled his hand back.

  They both stared.

  “Looks like the last one.” He’d extracted a white golf ball with a blue, red, and gold insignia on it featuring the letters HRGC. He handed it to Kennicott.

  Kennicott twirled it in his hand.

  “Same Humber River Golf Club ball,” he said, twirling it in his hand so he could read the initials below the insignia. “Same initials. K.L.H.”

  “Karl Leonard Hodgson,” Ho said. “I worked on his trial with your boss. Ari Greene doesn’t like to lose.”

  Three years earlier, Karl Hodgson, the former club president, was out golfing alone early one Monday morning when a drunken homeless man named Rubin Wilson accosted him as he approached the course’s remote seventh-hole green. He had a knife and demanded Hodgson give him his expensive watch. Wilson had picked the wrong man to try to rob. Hodgson, known to be a vociferous opponent of the homeless people who had moved into the valley, didn’t back down. Instead he took his nine iron and swung it at Wilson and bashed his head in, not once or twice but five times. Killing him.

  The case caused a huge controversy in the city. Homeless advocates and their supporters organized rotating protest marches in front of each of the city’s private golf clubs. They were pitted against homeowners and conservative talk show hosts who decried the increasing numbers of people sleeping on the sidewalks and begging on the streets, and the destruction of public spaces.

  Greene charged Hodgson with manslaughter. It was a high-profile trial that lasted three weeks, making daily headlines. The jury deliberated for four days before coming back with their verdict: not guilty. This provoked a massive pop-up protest and demonstrators appeared without warning at rush hour on one of the city’s major bridges, tying up traffic for half a day.

  The acquittal only strengthened the determination of the people who supported Hodgson. Emboldened, he embarked upon a career in politics. He ran for city council as an alderman in the ward where the golf club was located. He wore golf clothes to every political event he attended, no matter h
ow formal. In his campaign he pledged to rid the city of the homeless with the catch phrase “Work in Our City, Don’t Sleep on Our Streets.” He won in a landslide, and the rumour was that he was planning to run for mayor in the next election.

  “You’re right,” Kennicott said, handing the golf ball back to Ho and watching him put it into a fresh evidence bag and seal it. “Ari doesn’t like to lose.”

  8

  Alison realized that this was going to be tricky. Here she was reporting on a protest on College Street in front of the place where her father worked—Police Headquarters. She had a job to do, and it was important that she not let her personal life interfere with her professional life. Still, it felt weird. And she didn’t know how her dad was going to feel about it. She had to be careful.

  The scene was crowded. The centre lanes of College Street were taken up by streetcars, which left two narrow lanes each way for vehicles. It was the morning rush hour, and police were keeping the protesters confined to the meagre sidewalk in front of the building. Add to that the reporters and their TV vans parked on the sidewalk up the street, as well as the usual pedestrian traffic, and this whole thing had the potential to spin out of control.

  The protesters were a small but rowdy bunch. They carried what looked like hastily made signs, with slogans such as “Cops Don’t Care,” and “Police + Politicians + Homeless = No Action,” and “Stop Killing Our Most Vulnerable.” Alison watched them. She spotted their leader, a young, athletic-looking man with straight blond hair and trendy-looking wire-rimmed glasses. He started to chant, “The homeless have rights, the homeless have rights,” and his followers joined in.

  Alison looked back at Krevolin and pointed to the man.

  “Follow me. I want to try to get in and interview him.”

  She manoeuvred her way through the crowd, venturing onto the street when there was a gap in the heavy traffic, to get near to him. Krevolin stuck with her. When the chanting stopped, they approached the man.

  He saw them, turned to his followers with his arms outstretched like a southern preacher whipping up his congregation, and said, “Look, people, we have a TV reporter here. I predict she’ll seem really sympathetic when she interviews me, but on the news today not a word I’m saying will make it to air.”

  He turned back to face Alison. His face was smooth. He was handsome and he knew it.

  “Hello, Madam Reporter,” he said, in an obsequious voice.

  She held out her hand. “Alison Greene, T.O. TV News.”

  “Dr. Arnold Burns, People on the Street Health Care Clinic.” He shook her hand. His skin was soft and warm and he gave her a wide grin.

  “Like most reporters,” he said, “I doubt you know the real statistics of poverty in Toronto, the fastest-growing city in North America. And one of the richest in the world.”

  Alison let go of his hand. She wasn’t going to let this guy intimidate her. “Why don’t you wait until I get my cameraman set up?” she asked. “We’ll go live, and you can tell me and everyone else your comments.”

  His back stiffened. Gone was his smile, replaced with a serious look. “They’re not comments, they’re facts.”

  She put up a finger to quiet him while she listened on her earpiece to her producer back at the station.

  “We’re live in one minute, Doctor.”

  She motioned Krevolin forward.

  “Really?” He was trying not to sound impressed that she was putting him on the air live, but she could tell he was.

  “You’ll have about ninety seconds.”

  He waved to his supporters to gather around him, positioning the ones with the placards in the front. This guy was no fool, she realized. He knew how to play the media and make his little demonstration look much bigger on TV than it really was.

  “Going in twenty,” she told him.

  “Do you want me to repeat my name and the name of my clinic for you?” he asked, grinning again.

  He had sparkling white teeth, a surprising dimple when he smiled, and deep brown eyes that he focused on her. The guy was damn charming.

  She could see how this charismatic young doctor had attracted these followers on such short notice. He probably had a lot of young woman followers too.

  “Not necessary,” she said.

  She turned her back to him and faced the camera. The green light went on. “This is Alison Greene reporting live on College Street in front of Toronto Police Headquarters. Earlier today the second homeless person in two days was found murdered in the Humber Valley. The victim this time, as reported first here on T.O. TV News, was a woman. Behind me, as you can see, protesters have gathered to voice their concerns about the unseen poverty in Toronto, Canada’s wealthiest city. With me now is Dr. Arnold Burns, a physician at the People on the Street Health Care Clinic.”

  She turned and stared straight in his eyes.

  “Doctor Burns. You work on the front lines. How pervasive is homelessness and poverty in Toronto?”

  She put her mic below his chin.

  Instead of looking at the camera, as the amateurs did, he looked right back at her.

  “Alison, I’m glad you asked me that question.” He was calm and relaxed, talking to her as if they were best friends having an important conversation. “Sadly, too few people really care about what is actually happening in our city. They see beggars on the street, homeless people sleeping on sidewalks and in parks, and walk right past them while holding their five-dollar lattes or drive by in their imported luxury vehicles. They don’t recognize the pervasiveness of the poverty, the true extent of the hunger, the real desperation in Toronto. It’s a crisis but people want to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  He was good at painting a compelling picture.

  “What do the statistics tell us?” she asked him.

  “Did you know that one hundred fourteen homeless people died in Toronto last year? That’s one hundred and fourteen of our fellow citizens. This should be headline news. And more than a third of them were women.”

  “That’s startling.”

  “More than sixteen thousand people use the shelter system, and countless others simply live on the street or in the ravines and river valleys in third-world conditions. And how about this? One in every four children in this city lives in poverty. Tell me the truth, Alison, how does that make you feel?”

  It made her feel ill. She had no idea the numbers were this bad. But she couldn’t show emotion. Her job was to be an objective reporter.

  Burns was smooth. In seconds he’d turned the interview around and was questioning her. She was the one who was supposed to be doing that. She had to regain control.

  “Is that why your group is protesting today?” she asked him.

  “No.” He faced the camera. This guy knew how to sell it. “The inaction of the police.” He waved at his little gang of supporters, cupped his hands as if he was talking to an enormous crowd, and shouted, “Two homeless people have been murdered this week, and what are the police doing?”

  “Nothing!” they shouted back.

  “Do the police care?” he bellowed.

  “No,” they yelled back.

  “What do we want?”

  “Action!”

  They were so loud that it took a few seconds for Alison to hear her producer shouting in her ear: “Wrap it up, wrap it up.” Oh no, she realized. She’d been so entranced by the doctor that she’d been watching him in action and not reporting. She’d lost track of the time. And she’d allowed him to tarnish the Toronto Police Force, and by proxy, her father, without challenging him at all. Too late to fix it. Damn.

  She swung back to the camera, positioning herself at an angle that put the sign holders right behind her. “Reporting live for T.O. TV News, this is Alison Greene on the street in front of Toronto Police Headquarters.”

  She watched the green light above the camera, willing it to go to red. It stayed on for a few more painful seconds, as Krevolin panned behind her to take in the scene.

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sp; Finally the red light went on. Behind her, the protest instantly went quiet, like an electric radio when the plug was pulled from the wall.

  “Not bad,” Krevolin said, pulling the camera off his shoulder.

  She shook her head. “Nice of you to say, but we both know it was a disaster.”

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Burns. Smiling again, looking less condescending. Warmer.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “I think you were doing more than that. You seemed genuinely surprised by the grim statistics.”

  “I’m still quite new here. Toronto seems wealthy compared to London, where I grew up, which has its grotty parts. Here the poverty seems to be hidden.”

  “Hidden. That’s the problem.”

  “Do you think you are being fair to the police?”

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. “The police, the politicians, the corporations, what’s the difference? They’re all on the same team.”

  She was tempted to argue with him. But what would she say? You’re wrong. My father is the head of the homicide squad and I know he cares. It would sound ridiculous, and besides she didn’t want him to know.

  He pointed to her cameraman. “Why don’t you come to our clinic and do a story about the real Toronto?”

  He whipped a business card out, like an expert poker player flipping over his winning card, and slid it into her hand. Their fingers brushed across each other as she took it.

  “I can’t bring my cameraman, we’ve been up all night and I’d need to get approval,” she said. “But I’d like to see it for myself.”

  He pulled out a pen from nowhere, flipped the card over, and wrote out the name of a café. “Meet me here at noon, the best coffee in the city.”

  He put the card back in her hand.

  She read what he’d written: “Fahrenheit Café, Lombard and Jarvis.” He’d elongated the bottom of the final s into a large bubble and drawn a smiley face inside it.

  She looked back at him but he’d already turned back to his gang of followers.

  “What are the police doing?” he shouted again.