Shadow Tag, Perdition Games

by L E Fraser

  Emily nodded. “We tabled the mould and coal dust remediation pending an influx of operating capital. My partner, Dr. Beauregard, is in the process of securing new investors.” She waved at a tall man who stood outside a closed office door fiddling with a key chain. “Mathias, come and meet Sam McNamara, the clinical practicum candidate I mentioned.”

  He sauntered over with a confident swagger that screamed narcissist. Dr. Beauregard’s dark hair was coiffured, his indigo tie matched his eyes, and his black trousers were expensively tailored. At a few inches over six feet, he was nearly a foot taller than Sam was. He looked down his thin nose at her, with an imperious expression that made her instantly dislike him.

  “The investigator,” he stated with a sneer of contempt. “I don’t approve of Dr. Armstrong’s decision. That said, your investigation skills are beyond reproach, and I concede it’s her right to choose her own intern, regardless of her motivation. Please don’t embarrass our good name.”

  Sam didn’t appreciate his supercilious edict. She bit her tongue on a sharp retort.

  He turned to his partner. “I’m late for a meeting with investors. Your tardiness forced me to entertain Mrs. Basha.” Without another word, he entered the office outside which they stood and closed the door in their faces.

  “Don’t mind Mathias,” Emily said with a laugh. “He’s a product of his Harvard and Oxford education.” She continued walking down the hallway, indicating that Sam should follow her. “Prior to joining the private sector, Mathias served with the military. His work overseas with veterans’ post-traumatic stress disorder is impressive. We use his techniques to treat pediatric trauma and psychotic symptoms with remarkable success.”

  “I see,” Sam said, not bothering to hide her negative impression of the priggish man.

  Emily patted her arm. “Fear not. If you accept my internship, you’ll have limited interaction with Mathias. He doesn’t treat patients. Without private funds to invest into our venture, securing new investors falls under his purview. His business prowess is a great asset to the clinic.”

  Sam considered it a blessing he didn’t treat patients. His bedside manner was probably as obnoxious as his professional manner was.

  Emily opened double doors at the end of the corridor, leaving them slightly ajar. She circled a large oval table and took a seat next to a woman garbed in a traditional Afghan burka. The blue linen cloak encased her entire body. Delicately embroidered flowers surrounded a mesh screen that covered her eyes. The burka worried Sam. If she accepted the practicum, open communication with Fadiya’s mother would be instrumental in developing a course of treatment. It would be difficult to converse with Mrs. Basha through the thick facial netting. It would be impossible to read her expressions and body language.

  Beside the woman sat an emaciated man, possibly in his mid-twenties, with sharp facial features, jet-black hair, and large brown eyes set in a pale face.

  Emily introduced Sam to Mrs. Basha and her son, Aazar. The woman held her hand over her heart and nodded but remained silent. The young man smiled and nodded, but didn’t offer his hand. Something about him seemed familiar, but Sam couldn’t put her finger on what was triggering her memory.

  “It is an honour to meet you,” Aazar said pleasantly, wheezing between words. “You were inside the Bueton cult. You can help my sister.”

  “We welcome you to Fadiya’s circle of care,” Mrs. Basha said in a commanding voice. She turned her head to address Emily. “It is imperative that Fadiya be deemed legally competent. Time is of the essence, Dr. Armstrong. Did you receive my husband’s email regarding our family’s proposed donation?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s very generous,” Emily said and colour flushed her cheeks. “I’ve spoken with the surgeon and understand the urgency to have Fadiya legally able to consent. Sam’s experience with Bueton’s style of indoctrination can help us attain that goal.”

  The surgical urgency must be to abort the baby before Islamic law prevented it, Sam realized. It surprised her that Mrs. Basha knew. Emily had specifically said she wasn’t disclosing the pregnancy until they were able to identify Fadiya’s assailant.

  They continued to chat, with Emily updating the family on Fadiya’s progress and setbacks. Sam sat silently auditing the exchange and mentally struggling to settle the ethics of becoming involved in Fadiya’s case. She could speak informatively about Bueton and use that common ground to bridge trust. She had plenty of experience in working with victims of trauma. She could study deprograming strategies and seek advice from experts in the field. Perhaps she could lead Fadiya into accepting that the cult and its leader were gone. That breakthrough could help Emily to dispel the girl’s delusions. If her knowledge of Bueton could help to reinstate Fadiya’s legal rights and return her quality of life, Sam had an obligation to try. Helping people was why she’d studied psychology.

  At last, Mrs. Basha and Aazar stood, startling Sam from her inner debate.

  “Jazakallahu Khairan,” Mrs. Basha said to Emily.

  “Wa iyyaakum,” Emily replied.

  Sam joined Emily at the door and they watched the mother and son enter the elevator.

  “She said, ‘May Allah reward you with goodness’,” Emily told her. “I responded ‘And to you’.”

  “Does she know about the pregnancy?” Sam asked.

  “No. As I told you during our last meeting, I’m waiting to disclose it until we have facts,” Emily said.

  “Doesn’t Islamic law prohibit abortion after a certain number of weeks?” Sam asked.

  Emily nodded. “The Hadith permits abortion until the fetus is about four months old. After that, it’s deemed a living soul.” She closed and locked the boardroom door. “Waiting another few weeks won’t hurt. By then, you may have answers.”

  Sam disagreed, but it wasn’t her place to argue. “If it’s not an abortion, what surgery does Fadiya need to consent to?”

  “Aazar requires a lung lobe transplant. Fadiya is a living-donor match,” Emily said. “Since a judge declared her mentally incompetent to provide consent, we need to overturn the verdict quickly or her brother will die.”

  Sam followed her to the stairwell, feeling her cheeks flush with outrage. They intended on harvesting tissue from their deluded daughter to save their son. She took a calming breath. Could it be that straightforward? Reining in her spinning emotions, Sam considered the situation objectively.

  “Do you believe that Fadiya would consent if she were capable of doing so?” she asked.

  “She did consent before her condition worsened and she regressed,” Emily said.

  “Do families of your patients often offer generous donations as incentive?” She’d tried to curb her disapproval but heard it loud and clear.

  They travelled down three flights of stairs in silence, with Sam acutely aware that she’d offended the doctor. Emily escorted her through the locked doors that led to the front lobby and they stood together in a secluded alcove.

  “Private hospitalization in a predominately public health care system is difficult for many people to understand,” Emily said. “Like hospitals in the United States, we rely on private donors and investors to secure operating capital. Otherwise, our residential program fees would be staggering.”

  “I understand fee-for-service health care models, but I have concerns about private donations to encourage preferential treatment,” Sam said.

  “Fadiya would receive the same treatment with or without her family’s generosity,” Emily said curtly. “Do you object to Children’s Hospital running the Dream Lottery?”

  “That’s different,” Sam said. “The patients’ families aren’t gifting the hospital money with the expectation of receiving a higher level of care.”

  Emily held out her hand for Sam’s visitor badge. “That isn’t Mrs. Basha’s intention. You didn’t recognize Aazar, did you?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “Find out who he is,” Emily said st
iltedly. “Then you’ll understand the urgency.” She disappeared through the locked door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reece

  REECE PARKED IN front of a nondescript brick bungalow. The wood frame grids around the circa-1960 bay window were rotten, and the thin glass appeared fragile enough to crack under a strong breeze. Weeds sprouted from yellow grass, and a broken concrete walkway wound across the neglected yard to three sunken cement stairs that led to a decaying wood porch.

  His boss had authorized him to investigate the two drone sightings, so he was starting with Susan Taylor, the wife of the man who’d shot himself with an illegal firearm. Reece glanced around the dilapidated house and his mouth grew dry with dread. He had no answers for the widow, only intrusive questions that would catapult her into more misery over her husband’s death.

  There was no doorbell, and the storm door was either locked or jammed. Reece rapped on its rusted metal frame. After a minute without any response, he tentatively reached through a tear in the mesh screen and knocked on a rickety front door. From inside, a dog yapped.

  He waited another minute to no avail. “Mrs. Taylor? Reece Hash from the Crown attorney’s office. We spoke on the phone,” he shouted.

  The door opened a crack and a short, chubby, grey-haired woman with a thin upper lip peered at him through thick-lensed spectacles.

  Reece smiled and held up his identification. “Hi, I’m a bit early. Is this convenient?” He was on time and she had agreed to speak with him, but her suspicious expression implied his arrival was an unpleasant surprise.

  She closed the door. He heard the chain unlatch and the door reopened. She unlocked the storm door and stood aside, silently waving him inside. A scruffy Yorkshire terrier sat at her feet, glaring accusingly at Reece.

  He entered a musty foyer and followed her uneven gait into a gloomy front room. The house was stifling hot and there was an unpleasant smell. It was a combination of stale cigarette smoke, mouldy carpet, and dirty dog. The only light came from a narrow opening between black velvet drapes. Dust motes danced in the thin sunbeam.

  “Detached retina. Light hurts my eyes.” She sat in a torn vinyl BarcaLounger and lifted the mangy dog onto her lap. It put its snout between its paws and stared at Reece.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Taylor. That must be unpleasant.” He perched on the edge of a shabby floral sofa across from her, discreetly swiping perspiration from his upper lip and breathing shallowly through his mouth.

  “That’s life,” she replied casually. “Call me Susan. I don’t answer to Taylor no more. What do you want to know about Harold?”

  “I’m following up on an incident report he filed prior to his suicide,” Reece began.

  “Right, his suicide.” She wrapped the word in air quotes. Her right hand was a gnarled claw that trembled with palsy.

  “You don’t believe he committed suicide?”

  “We were married forty-years. Harold was a nasty son-of-a-bitch. He wouldn’t take his life and leave me to enjoy the end of mine in peace.” She lit a cigarette, blowing smoke out of the corner of her lips. “Besides, Harold was a papist. Suicide is a mortal sin. He took that bullshit serious. Went off to confession for a priest’s blessing every time he laid a beating on me. Never understood how that worked. Commit whatever sin you like, trot into the confessional, and skip out absolved. You Catholic?”

  “No,” Reece answered. “Did you report the abuse?”

  “I called the cops and they rushed right over to serve and protect.” Her voice dripped with disdain. “Government offered disability benefits and found me what the kids today call a safe space.” She cackled and rummaged in a drawer in a table beside her. “Son, you’ve got a lot to learn about the real world. There ain’t no help for women like me. We made our beds.” She held out a grubby envelope. “I got an iPhone Harold didn’t know about and got pretty good at selfies.”

  Reece stood and took the envelope. Inside were dozens of photos he assumed were of the woman in front of him. It was hard to tell in some of the pictures. The brutality of her injuries was horrifying. He dropped the envelope on a dusty coffee table but held onto the photos.

  “Case you didn’t notice, I have cerebral palsy,” she said. “Docs figure my mother was a drinker. Fetal alcohol syndrome, they call it. Always had trouble with my eyes and I got osteonecrosis.” She lit another cigarette. “Means my bones are dying. I was saving to leave Harold, but I had to give up my job nineteen years ago. Tried to get disability benefits. It went all the way to a tribunal, but the government still denied me.”

  “Can I take these?” He held up the photos from the envelope she’d given him.

  Susan shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

  He tucked the photos into his shirt pocket. “Harold reported to police that a drone was following him. Do you know anything about that?” Reece asked.

  “If it wasn’t one conspiracy theory, it was another,” Susan said. “Yeah, I heard about the drone.”

  “Did you see it?”

  She shook her head. “Harold told me he was gathering evidence to persecute the operator. Hoped he could sue in civil court and have himself a payday.” She gestured behind her. “His office is in the outbuilding. He lived out there when he wasn’t itching to hurt me. It’s where he died,” she said. “Whatever the police left, you’re welcome to. I can’t get down the hill and haven’t been inside since he built himself his palace.” She put out her cigarette. “You think someone murdered the old bastard, eh?”

  “No, I’m just following up on the drone report,” Reece said quickly.

  She cackled. “Yeah, and Prince Harry and that pretty wife of his are dropping by for tea tomorrow.”

  “Can you think of anyone who had an issue with Harold?” Reece asked.

  “Everyone who ever met the bastard. He was a bully and preyed on the weak.” She studied him pensively, as if deciding whether to say more.

  Reece had interrogated many reluctant witnesses over his years as a police inspector. He sensed that Susan had a story to tell. He stayed quiet and waited, knowing she’d eventually fill the silence.

  “I had a son.” She spoke softly. “Harold wanted me to abort the baby. I wouldn’t, so he beat me near gone every day. My boy was born three months early, but he was a fighter. Lived for sixteen days.” She wiped her eye with the back of her knuckle. “I reckon lots of men like to hurt women, but Harold’s evil ran deeper. He considered people like me a throwback. Believed society should scrub the gene pool.” She lowered her eyes with undeserved shame. “That’s what he did with my son.”

  Sensing its mistress’s anguish, the dog whined and licked her hand.

  “That was a long time ago. I only tell you because it gives you an idea of Harold’s personality.” She snuggled her Yorkie, kissing the top of its head. “He killed our neighbour’s dog last year. Fed it poisoned meat. He picked something slow acting, so the poor animal suffered. Harold stood at the fence with a big grin and watched it die.”

  “Were the police involved?” Reece asked.

  Susan nodded. “Neighbour suspected Harold but the authorities said there wasn’t any proof, not that they looked too hard.” She laughed bitterly. “But they sure took a hard look at me after the son-of-a-bitch died. Brought in detectives, and they don’t do that with suicides.”

  “They do,” Reece assured her. “Especially with gunshot victims. Do you know where Harold got the gun?”

  She nodded. “He hung out at a restaurant around here that hires disabled employees. Owner kicked him out because of the sinful things he said and did to those poor folks. He met some street thug there and bought the gun from him,” she said. “He told everyone he knew. Harold never had a lick of shame. He kept it out in his palace in a strongbox. Cops took it and good riddance.” She reached for a television remote beside her. “Keys to the outbuilding are on a peg by the back door. Latch it on your way out.”

  Reece thanked her and wa
lked to the rear of the house. A keychain was indeed on a peg beside a rickety screen door. He looked across a neglected backyard. At the base of a sharp decline was a large, detached building in pristine condition. That would be Harold’s palace.

  “Like I said, help yourself to whatever you want,” Susan called from the front room. “Burn it to the ground, if it suits you. You’d be doing me a favour.” The television blared, causing Reece to wince at the audio assault.

  He locked the door behind him and picked his way through scattered trash to the crest of the steep hill. The July sun was scorching and sweat dripped from his hairline as he carefully descended. Beneath knee-high grass were uneven stepping-stones. Rather than easing the descent, however, they were a tripping hazard, and Reece kept his eyes glued to the ground as he sidestepped down the sharp incline.

  Investigating spouses in sudden-death cases was common, but the cops would have quickly eliminated Susan as the shooter. The feeble woman couldn’t negotiate this perilous hill with her health issues. Still, he couldn’t help but question the lead detective’s due diligence. One short interview with the widow had already left Reece suspecting that Harold’s death could be something other than what it seemed.

  He reached the outbuilding. The door had two deadbolts and a padlock. Harold was a suspicious man, apparently. Beside the door, a top-of-the-line air conditioner hummed. It said a lot about the man. His medically fragile wife languished in a rundown house without modern conveniences, while Harold enjoyed state-of-the-art climate control in his man-cave.

  It took a few minutes to figure out the keys and open the door. The metallic odour of old blood hit him first. Then the rancid stench of feces, urine, and decaying meat crawled across the room and punched him in the face. The seven-hundred-square-foot living room and kitchen buzzed with feasting flies. Gagging, Reece shoved the door open wide and stumbled back, covering his nose with his hand. If someone hadn’t had the presence of mind to leave the air conditioner on, the putrefaction would have been much worse. Reece couldn’t believe that authorities hadn’t contacted Victim Services Toronto. The woman’s husband had blown his brains out in this room. Susan had a special need, for God’s sake, and obviously required assistance to hire a crime scene clean up company. It was costly, which was probably why she’d ignored the issue, but there were programs available to provide financial assistance. It was irresponsible to leave her unaided with a biohazard risk in her backyard. The insensitivity of the lead detective infuriated Reece.