Downfall

by Robert Rotenberg

  Parish was starving. She devoured the pastry and gulped down the cappuccino. She needed the sugar and caffeine. For the next few hours she scoured through Melissa’s emails and texts. Maybe, she hoped, she’d find something that would be useful for Detective Greene, but they were just Melissa’s endless diatribes about her ex-husband and her specious conspiracy theories about drug companies trying to kill the homeless.

  She stood, stretched, and paced around her office, around and around like a dog circling its bed. On her third lap she spotted Melissa’s bag of old clothes on the chair in the corner. For no reason other than for something to do, she tugged it open.

  How depressing. When Melissa was a successful lawyer at the top of her game she had a gorgeous wardrobe. Every spring she and Karl would jet off to Paris to see the fashion shows. She was great at making contacts, and in a few years she was the lawyer for all the big-name designers who wanted to do business in Canada. Chanel, Armani, Chloé. You name it. She always had the latest jacket, skirt, shoes, purse, scarf, and accessories, all with the right names on them.

  Parish pulled each item out of the bag one at a time and laid them on the floor. It was amazing, so much time and energy spent picking out these clothes, so much importance once placed upon them, and now they looked like nothing more than worthless rags.

  Before Parish even finished emptying the bag, a flash of anger rolled through her. “Damn it!” she cried out, even though no one would hear her. “Such a waste, such a goddam waste!”

  She closed the bag, raised it high above her head, and whacked it down on her desk as hard as she could. To her astonishment, she heard a loud smack.

  What the hell was at the bottom of the bag? She tore it back open, tossing the rest of the designer-label rags onto the floor until she felt something solid and pulled it out.

  It was a hardbound notebook. A typed label affixed to the front cover read, “JUST IN CASE: Nance Read This When They Kill Me. By Melissa Copeland.”

  Parish sank to the floor, sitting on a pile of Melissa’s clothes and staring at the book. She thought back to yesterday morning, when Melissa tossed the bag in the corner. “Keep my stuff,” she’d said. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

  Parish turned to the first page and started to read, whispering over and over and over again to herself, “Melissa. Oh, Melissa.”

  39

  “In an exclusive report, T.O. TV News has learned that a third homeless person in less than a week has been murdered in the Humber Valley,” Alison said, looking straight into the camera. “The victim this time was Ms. Melissa Copeland, the ex-wife of well-known city councillor Karl Hodgson. Her body was found on the grounds of the Humber River Golf Club, where three years ago Hodgson killed a homeless man who had tried to rob him.”

  The legal department at the TV station had carefully vetted Alison’s script. It was true that Hodgson had killed a homeless man, but the lawyers cut out any reference to the fact that he’d been tried for murder.

  She was standing on the sidewalk in front of Hodgson’s enormous house. Now, as she’d rehearsed a few minutes earlier with Krevolin, she turned and pointed while he followed her arm with his camera.

  Alison kept speaking: “After Hodgson divorced Melissa Copeland, he obtained a court order to prevent her from coming back to her home or from seeing her daughter. Sadly, Melissa, once a top lawyer at one of Toronto’s largest firms, ended up on the street. Homeless.”

  Krevolin panned the camera back to her. Alison put on her most serious face.

  “Three homeless people murdered in the Humber Valley, just blocks away from where I’m standing. Right now, people in this neighbourhood, and the estimated ten thousand homeless people across the city, are living in fear. Reporting live, on scene, this is Alison Greene.”

  She stared directly into the camera and waited for the red light to go off. The approved script read “the city’s homeless,” but she’d added the phrase “estimated ten thousand” on her own. If she was going to do her job, which meant she was going to have to exploit this situation, she was going to make sure she made a statement.

  “Well done,” Krevolin said, pulling the camera off his shoulder.

  Alison unpinned the mic on her shirt. “It feels dirty.”

  After her dad gave her this scoop, even though it was the middle of the night, Alison had called her boss and told her what had happened.

  “Hodgson’s ex-wife? Murdered?” Persaud had asked, immediately alert. “At his golf club? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. My source is totally reliable.”

  “Wow. And you say she was a lawyer who became homeless? This story’s going to go viral.”

  “I’ll get Krevolin and rush over to the golf club for a live hit.”

  “Absolutely not,” Persaud said. “You’ve got this amazing scoop. Hodgson’s ex, homeless while he lives in a mansion. The big house—that’s what people want to see. This is TV. Images tell the story.”

  “But what about their daughter? She’s only eleven.” Alison knew how it felt to suddenly lose your mother and could imagine the horror Britt was about to go through.

  “Like it or not, she’s part of the story.”

  “But her mum was just murdered. She’ll have to wake up to that terrible news. It will be awful enough. She doesn’t need our van parked outside her front door.”

  “Alison,” Persaud said, “this news is going to get out in the next hour if not sooner, and the other stations will descend on that house like a pack of hungry wolves. Do you want to be there first, or do you want to be stuck in the crowd?”

  Alison sighed.

  “Listen to me,” Persaud said in a stern voice. “I took a chance on you last year because I thought you were going to be a fearless journalist. Sometimes you have to do the dirty stuff.”

  Alison knew she was right. A year earlier she was a journalism school dropout who had stumbled upon the high-profile murder of one of the city’s top condominium developers. Persaud believed in her enough to let her run with the story, and Alison did such good work, it had led to this job.

  “Okay,” she said, “but I’m not mentioning their daughter’s name. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “Agreed,” Persaud had said before she’d hung up.

  Alison looked back at the Hodgsons’ home. She had to admit, filming here made the story. All the curtains were drawn across the many windows. She hated to think of what was going on inside and the emotions of Britt, who just last night was the star of a party held in her honour.

  “Time to go,” she said, helping Krevolin pack up his gear. “I don’t want that little girl to look out her window and see us parked right outside.”

  “Noble of you, but it won’t matter.” He pointed down the street.

  Alison saw two other TV station trucks zipping up the road. Behind them were a bunch of cars with radio station logos plastered all over them.

  “Here come the hairy hordes,” Krevolin said.

  Alison grabbed one of Krevolin’s bags. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said. “Pronto.”

  She stepped in the TV van, and her phone buzzed. An incoming text. It was from Burns.

  “Well done!”

  “Thanks,” she typed back.

  “The ten thousand homeless. Right on.”

  She nodded. She had come up with an idea for a story and was determined to do it. He could help her.

  “I want to do a story on homeless women in the city. When can we meet?”

  “In an hour.”

  “Where?”

  “Fahrenheit. I’ll take you to a nearby women’s drop-in centre.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  40

  Years ago, when Greene started on the force, the coroner’s office was housed in an old, wood-panelled, Victorian-era building with high ceilings and stone walls. Despite the grim tasks being done inside, there had been a friendly informality about the place. Back then Toronto was a much smaller city,
there were hardly any guns around, and most of the murders were crimes of passion. The receptionists, the support staff, the pathologists, even the cleaners—everyone knew each other, everyone worked together. There were no identification cards or even sign-in sheets. He would walk in, wave at the receptionist, and go inside. No problem.

  Now the city was three times bigger and the murder rate had grown with it. The coroner’s building had moved to a concrete, ultra-modern facility. Greene hadn’t been here since they’d installed a sterile security system that started with a bored-looking young man behind a bulletproof-glass window, tapping on his cell phone. He took his time before he peered up at Greene, then hit a switch on his desk. His tinny, mechanical-sounding voice came through a small square speaker at the top of the glass.

  “Purpose of your visit,” he said.

  “My name is Detective Ari Greene. I’m here to observe an autopsy.”

  Why else would he be here? Greene thought. And why a bulletproof window? Did a faceless bureaucrat think some gang members were going to try to blast their way inside to kill someone who was already dead? He fished out his identity card from his wallet and put it up to the glass.

  “I spoke to Mr. Krangle. Take a look, my name should be on your list.”

  Krangle was the manager who’d been in charge of the Coroner’s Office for years. He ran the place with an iron fist in a velvet glove, cajoling, bargaining with, and forcing his team of pathologists—whom he liked to call “physician prima donnas”—when he had to get them to come in on short notice to perform urgent autopsies in the middle of the night or on holiday weekends.

  Krangle, who spoke in short sentences, had been all business when they’d talked earlier.

  “What do you need?” he’d asked Greene.

  “It looks as if we have another homeless person murdered. No time to waste.”

  “I’ve got a tremendous new pathologist. She’s very keen. I’ll get her in ASAP.”

  The young man behind the glass pulled out a clipboard and flipped through a few typed pages.

  “Identification on the tray,” his tin voice said. He didn’t bother to look up at Greene.

  Greene glanced around but didn’t see a tray.

  “Below the counter,” the tin voice said.

  Greene found the metal tray, pulled it out, put his ID in, and pushed it forward. Tin Voice finished tapping on his phone, then picked up the ID, glanced at it, put a small clipboard, a guest tag, and the ID back in the tray, and shoved it back to Greene.

  “Sign in and wear the ID,” he said, already back on his phone.

  Greene took his card, clipped on the ID, signed the sheet, sent it back, then had to wait at a locked door for Tin Voice to stop tapping and hit the switch. There was a high-pitched buzzing sound, and Greene pulled the entrance door open.

  The cadavers must sleep soundly here now, he thought, knowing there is such a high level of security.

  As soon as he made his way inside, he saw Krangle.

  “Ari,” the man called, a warm smile lighting up his face.

  Krangle was a squat man with a bald head that seemed to shine in the light. He rushed up to Greene and took his hand.

  “Been too long.”

  “Nice to see you again,” Greene said.

  “Sorry for all you went through.”

  “Life happens.”

  Krangle was still holding his hand. “We’re all glad you’re back.”

  Since his arrest and trial and acquittal, every time he encountered someone from his earlier police days, there was the same type of conversation. He’d gotten good at changing the subject.

  “Everyone except your young receptionist.”

  Krangle’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Millennials,” he said, as if it were a punch line in a bad joke. “They live on their phones.”

  “Who’s the new pathologist?” Greene asked.

  Krangle smiled again.

  “Dr. Juliana Ramos. She’s new. Top-notch. Did the other two homeless. Insisted on doing this. Didn’t want to wait. She’s almost done. You’ll like her.”

  Greene followed Krangle down the hallway. The walls were filled with framed black-and-white photographs of the old stone coroner’s building. Funny how they tore down buildings in the city, then glorified them when they were gone.

  Inside the operating theatre, Dr. Ramos was dressed in white scrubs, gloves, and a hair net, with a mic around her neck. She dictated as she worked on the opened body of Melissa Copeland. An assistant stood behind, peering over her shoulder.

  Greene stepped closer, gingerly, and watched. Ramos’s movements were agile and precise. She looked up and noticed him.

  For some reason he’d assumed she’d be young, but she was older than he’d expected her to be, closer to his age. With a smooth, intelligent face, high cheekbones, and piercing black eyes.

  “You must be the detective.” She had a charming accent that he couldn’t quite place. Maybe Spanish?

  “Ari Greene. I appreciate you coming in on such short notice.”

  “The work must get done,” she said, all business.

  Over her shoulder Greene saw Krangle wink at him. Greene frowned.

  “Preliminary findings?” he asked her.

  “Appears to be similar to the other two homeless people murdered this week. Crushing blow to the back of the head, not consistent with a vodka bottle being used but a heavier blunt object. Except one thing.”

  Without ceremony she pulled Copeland’s limp wrist up and showed Greene her fingernails. “Skin under the fingernails and bits of glass.” She picked up Copeland’s other wrist. “Both hands.”

  Their eyes met.

  “This woman fought hard,” she said.

  It was grim to see such stark, sad evidence of Melissa’s struggle in the last seconds of her life. He could see Ramos was sympathetic.

  “We need to send samples out for DNA comparison right away,” he said.

  She shook her head and gave Greene a mildly condescending frown.

  “Detective…”

  “Greene.”

  “This was the first thing I looked for. I sent the samples out for urgent results, which I am told in this jurisdiction takes at least three days.”

  She was confident but not cocky. Professional.

  She turned to her assistant, who handed her a nearby iPad.

  Greene expected her to show it to him. Instead she said, “Detective, I am done with my work here, my assistant can finish up. Please, come with me.”

  She efficiently took off her scrubs, folded them into the laundry bin, then walked quickly through the autopsy suite.

  “You work fast,” he said, keeping up with her.

  “Why waste time?”

  They came to a small anteroom off to the side. There was a single metal locker there that looked old and out of place. A handwritten label with the name “Ramos” was slipped into the label slot on the door.

  She pulled off her gloves and her gown with practiced efficiency. Underneath she wore a trim pair of black jeans that looked as if they had been ironed, a crisp white shirt, and a turquoise necklace that looked like some ancient Aztec design.

  She kicked the locker. He noticed for the first time she was wearing brown leather laced-up boots.

  “Apparently, I am the only female pathologist in Toronto,” she said. “They gave me this room to change in.”

  “At least you deserve a typed label,” he said.

  “It’s on my list, Detective, but I’ve been kept busy since I arrived.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  She pulled off the hair net. A tumble of straight jet-black hair cascaded down her back.

  “Had you ever been to Toronto before?” he asked her.

  “Never been to North America before. They flew me in for the interview on a Friday.”

  “Flew you in from where?”

  “Uruguay. They needed someone thanks to the recent spike in crime her
e. They asked me if they offered me the job, when could I start? I said Monday. I went home, packed up, and here I am.”

  “Decisive.”

  “Always.” She ran her fingers through her hair and grinned. She had perfect white teeth, and Greene realized she was wearing bright-red lipstick.

  “Then you don’t know Toronto very well.”

  “Not at all. I’ve hardly had time to unpack.” She looked straight at Greene. “I hope to find someone who can show me where I can get a good cup of coffee.”

  He smiled back. “I know a good place, but I’m not a coffee drinker.”

  She laughed. “A police detective who doesn’t drink coffee. That is very strange.”

  She pulled up her iPad. “I wanted to show you this out of earshot of anyone else. I lifted a fingerprint from the victim’s neck. I was able to get a match in minutes. I believe you will be interested in the results.”

  Ramos’s face was now blank. She wasn’t going to give anything away.

  He took the iPad from her and read the name displayed there. He looked back at her.

  Her face cracked into a hint of a smile. “I looked this name up on the internet, Detective,” she said. “You have charged this man with murder one time already, no?”

  41

  Always one step behind. That’s how this whole investigation felt to Kennicott right now. He’d underestimated the first murder of a homeless man, and so had the media. The story had hardly made a blip in the press. The second one had set off alarm bells. The media coverage exploded, fuelled by the protests outside Police Headquarters. That got Greene assigned to the case and the mayor involved. But now there had been three homicides right under Kennicott’s nose. Add to that a huge protest planned for some still-unknown location tomorrow, and now the mayor and the premier and even the prime minister were chiming in on the plight of the homeless and making noises about showing up to speak to the crowd.

  Kennicott and Greene were under the gun in a way they’d never been before. And Kennicott was kicking himself. He’d been undercover as a waiter at Britt’s party but had lost track of Hodgson. Wasn’t it predictable that Melissa would show up at the celebration for her daughter? Shouldn’t he have had someone out patrolling the grounds full-time?