by L E Fraser
Talking to her was exhausting. Leading her back to the discussion on the cases, he said, “One connection is a bistro in Parkdale. They hire employees with disabilities. Two victims…” Reece couldn’t find the right word to describe their loathsome behaviour. “Well, they bullied employees with special needs. Annalise Huang allegedly made a barista cry.”
“And you think the killer witnessed the incident.” Gretchen thought in silence for a second. “The behaviour you’re describing could fit the profile of a vigilante,” she conceded. “Did you follow-up with the barista?”
“Turn it over to Toronto Police Services,” Reece said.
Her lips thinned. “If I publically demand the Chief Coroner reopens a slew of cases, think of the consequences.”
Criminal attorneys in the city could use the media frenzy to their clients’ benefits. The detectives and officers who investigated the cases that the city reopened would have to defend every piece of evidence on every prior conviction associated with them. That was a serious problem, Reece agreed, but his gut told him there was more to her resistance.
She tapped the folder with a blunt fingernail. “If you’re right and a vigilante is roaming our streets. Bring me evidence. Do it without directly involving this office.”
“How do I investigate without official authorization?” Reece asked in frustration.
“You’re a partner in one of the city’s best-known private investigation agencies,” she replied.
“You want me to lie to cops I’ve worked with and pretend someone hired Sam and me?” he asked with disbelieve. “Gretchen, it’s a well-known fact that I’m your articling student. They won’t believe it’s a private case.”
Gretchen stood and put on her jacket, pulling her long hair over the collar. “Then allow a killer to run rampant.” She straightened her skirt across her thin hips. “Is that a conundrum for someone who used to serve and protect?” She smiled without a hint of warmth. “Having been a decorated police inspector, I’m sure you’ll err on the side of civic duty.”
He followed her out of the office. The elevator opened and she stepped in. Reece stood immobile. He didn’t want to ride down with the insufferable woman, he was too angry that she’d put the onus on him to compromise his integrity.
“Find me evidence. Then I’ll take it to the powers that be.” She held her hand against the doors to prevent them from closing. “If you turn over any material associated to this investigation to anyone at Toronto Police Services, you will be in direct violation of your non-disclosure and confidentiality agreements.” Her expression was foreboding. “Your employment will be terminated and criminal charges will be laid in accordance to the law.” She dropped her hand and the elevator door slid closed.
Reece might not understand her endgame but he clearly understood her ultimatum. His choice was to betray men and women he respected or to ignore a potential threat to public safety. If he followed his moral compass and took his findings to the head of Toronto’s homicide squad, it would end his law career and conceivably lead to prison.
Gretchen had him pinned between a boulder and a mountain.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Journal
THREE WEEKS AFTER Katrina had devastated southeastern Louisiana, we braced for the arrival of Hurricane Rita. On September 20th, the president issued a federal state of emergency and shoreline parishes began evacuation.
The coast was an hour south of us, and the hurricane would rapidly weaken over land as the storm moved north from the Gulf. My father said even a twenty-five-foot storm surge, pushing seawater inland, would not compromise us. The levees on the Atchafalaya River would hold, he said. Dad had built our house on ten-foot steel pilings, engineered by a soldier in the corps. If the Bayou Teche flooded, we were well above the water rise. Hurricane ties had been wrapped over the large truss hangers, anchoring the roof system to the walls, and the roof pitch deflected wind lift. Our house was as close as possible to being hurricane resistant.
What he did not say, but what I understood, was that we had no option but to stay. There was no safe haven for my mother outside our oasis on the bayou.
The days of her passing as a fantasy-prone eccentric were gone. Her mind had crumbled after Pearl’s pregnancy became obvious. Mom had vanished into the mystical universe of plantations with stone balustrades and mint juleps sipped at elegant garden parties. It was a world in which my sister also found solace. After the horror of the Crawfish Festival, Pearl had tumbled down the rabbit hole to reside with my mother in gracious Old Savannah. They spent their days beneath the cypress tree, watching life unfold on the bayou. Mom would comb coconut oil through Pearl’s long platinum hair until it shone in the brilliance of the afternoon sun. The echo of their childlike laughter would ripple across my skin like gentle caresses, and my heart would fill once more with the nectar of untarnished love. Time would freeze as I immersed myself in the sweet rhythm of their unadulterated happiness. For a moment, I’d long to follow them into the comfort of madness.
The day before Rita made landfall, Dad and I dragged our mud boat under the house, secured it to auger-style anchors, and weighed it down with bags of sand we soaked with water. As we worked in comfortable silence, my eyes strayed to the bald cypress tree that had long ago ceased to be a landmark and had become a living character in our life story. It held our secrets and our dreams nestled safe within the embrace of its gnarled branches. I could not bear for Rita to tear it from the ground and discard it, mortally wounded, in the tempestuous water. My helplessness to protect the people and things I loved from ruin was a profound ache in my soul.
Just before noon, I left my father fastening shutters and took our pickup into town to buy extra batteries. A garish black Hummer hogged three parking spaces outside the hardware store. I wedged my truck into the last remaining spot, circled the Hummer, and peeked through the wide-panel sunroof. A wisp of envy unfurled as I gazed at a leather steering wheel, a Bose sound system, and wood trim on a dashboard that looked serious enough to launch a missile. Discarded on the brown leather passenger seat was a Ka-Bar knife with its wicked serrated blade open. It was a lot of knife for an entitled asshole who had never needed to hunt or fish to feed his family.
“Like what you see?”
I spun around and heat crept up my cheeks. “Hey, Virgile. Nice ride.”
He leaned against the Hummer, crowding into my personal space with a whiff of unearned arrogance. “Yeah it is.”
“Hard on gas.” I turned to go, and he moved to block my path.
“Well, I don’t have to worry about that,” he said with a snide grin. “Shouldn’t you be on the swamp hunkering down for Rita? Y’all gotta take care of your crazy ma, retard sis, and gimpy pa,” he said with an exaggerated drawl. “I heard State is offering you a basketball scholarship. Imagine that—an opportunity to wash off the stink of the bayou and broaden your horizons. And I hear you’re aspiring to be a doctor. Following in your pappy’s footsteps.” He laughed. “Oops, footstep. Maybe you won’t fuck up your life by marrying crazy and breeding retards.”
“Step off, Virgile,” I said and held his beady, serpentine eyes.
He put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Or what, you’ll move me? Now, that I’d like to see.” He snickered and moved in closer, his rancid breath polluting the air between us. “Your sister is one hot piece of meat, Blu. I’m surprised you don’t want to stick around. Once she pops that kid out, she’ll be ripe again. Rumour has it that your daddy helps himself. Not like she knows enough to care about some good old coonass incest.”
“Shut up and get in the car, boy!”
At the sound of his father’s voice, Virgile’s head swivelled ninety degrees and his neck cracked. The fear in his bulging eyes was more satisfying than the blood that would have gushed from his nose if I’d hit him. His father rounded the front end of the Hummer, and Virgile goose-stepped to the passenger side.
“Blu, caught the game l
ast week. You did real well,” Mr. Landry said and stowed two bags in the backseat. “Your fade-away jump is damn impressive. You better believe that State scout was paying attention. My old alma mater—did you know?” He winked and opened the driver’s door, glancing up at the gathering clouds. “Goddamn Rita’s destined to wipe out the southwestern Louisiana coast. No way will the levees hold, and the Teche will take the brunt of it. Y’all stay safe.”
As he drove away with Virgile sulking beside him, I glanced after the Hummer and my eyes widened. A churning whirlpool of confusion sucked the air from my lungs. I sprinted after the retreating truck, unable to believe what I’d seen on the bumper.
The rain began fast, soaking me within seconds, and the gusting wind shook the street signs. The Hummer turned onto St. Phillip Street, sheets of water pouring across the back grill and concealing the rear of the SUV. My knees turned to jelly and I lurched sideways, into the traffic on South Main Street. Horns honked and irate drivers swerved around me. The scorching heat of the truth turned to red-hot lava in my churning stomach. I stopped, turned, and staggered back to my truck, with my hands clenched into powerless fists at my side. My hand shook, and I struggled to get the key into the ignition, unable to see through a thickening black mist that pulsed and ebbed across my eyes. The engine finally caught and the tires squealed as I pulled into a U-turn, cutting off two cars. I drove home in a semi-fugue state, memory reflex my only navigation through the blinding rain.
My father was filling buckets from the hose, the overhanging porch protecting him from the worst of the rain and wind. He turned as I sped into the yard, the truck tires spinning gravel and water. I jumped out, leaving the door gaping open, and took the porch steps two at a time. He caught me as I stumbled over the top riser.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
I clung to his shoulders. “Virgile Landry raped Pearl.”
The colour drained from his face. “What? How can you know that?”
“She recognized him at the Crawfish Festival. She told us.”
“No. She didn’t, Blu. She saw him but she never said he laid hands on her,” he insisted.
I shook him, harder than I intended. “She did! C, C, C—W831780! It wasn’t a letter—she needed us to see.”
“See what? You aren’t making any sense!”
“The licence plate on Virgile’s Hummer is W831780. There was a Ka-Bar serrated knife on his passenger seat—the same type of blade that cut Pearl. Virgile Landry raped Pearl. She saw him before she became upset at the festival. Pearl saw him getting into the Hummer. The licence plate number was how she tried to tell us.”
My father took a step back and steadied himself with one hand on a closed shutter. “But… he’s Basile Landry’s son.”
An ugly seed of shame took root in my belly. “He’s the son of a rich man, so that makes it okay?” I yelled. “He can rape your own daughter and you’ll kowtow?”
My father reached for me and I stepped out of his range.
He dropped his arms to his side. “Blu, that’s not what I meant and you know it. We don’t have proof. You think the Breaux Bridge Police Department is going to investigate the Landry family based on this?”
“We take care of this.” I pounded my chest with my fist. “We get justice for Pearl.”
My father lowered his eyes and shook his head. “If you’re right, then after the baby comes, a paternity test will prove Virgile’s the father. We wait. We follow the law.”
“Before you deployed, you told me not to take Pearl to the hospital.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Because I obeyed you, there’s no record of how her hair was torn from her scalp, of the wounds I had to stitch, no semen samples from him plowing into her, no evidence of how he shredded her insides.” Tears mixed with the rain that pelted my face. “He’ll say it was consensual. Cops will interrogate Pearl and Landry’s lawyer will blame her. Authorities will want to institutionalize her. People are the enemy, Dad—you taught me that. The damn doctor at the free clinic and the assholes at the Crawfish Festival proved that. We take care of this. We protect our blood.”
“Listen to me,” my father said. “Virgile could have loaned his Hummer to a buddy. There was a group of them at the festival. You can’t prove that Pearl was trying to identify Virgile, only that she recognized the Hummer.” He folded his arms over his chest. “We don’t have enough evidence.”
I stood slack-jawed and repulsed, incapable of ascertaining whether he was simply naive or whether he was too cowardly to stand against the wealthy. I remembered how he’d stood meek and voiceless as my grandfather had insulted my mother’s honour and dismissed me as unworthy. If my father hadn’t left me alone to care for my family while he was overseas, I wouldn’t have been hunting swamp rats to feed us. Pearl wouldn’t have followed me to the bayou. Virgile would never have had an opportunity to violate her. My father’s craven inability to secure protection for his family had set the stage for violence to befall us during his deployment. Then a worse thought surfaced, an ugly supposition that my blistering temper put into words.
“You’re refusing to do the honourable thing for your daughter because of money.” The contempt in my voice shocked me but I couldn’t stop. “You’re willing to hold out your hand to a rapist’s father in exchange for keeping quiet.”
My head whipped to the left and my ears rang. Stinging needles of pain spread across my face.
My father stared in abject horror at his hand. The palm was crimson from the force of its impact against my cheek.
Abruptly, his black eyes became empty. I had witnessed that thousand-yard stare once or twice since his return from Afghanistan and I knew that, right now, he was no longer standing on our porch during the terrifying genesis of a hurricane. The rain, hammering against the roof, had transmuted into a cannonade of gunfire. My father was once again a frightened soldier huddled in the sand amongst the dead, trying to stanch the torrential outpouring of blood from all that was left of his leg.
I could so easily forgive him for striking me, but he’d never forgive himself. By raising a hand against his own child, he had broken a sacred vow that meant more to him than his life did. In a moment of senseless rage, I had minimized my father’s self-worth. With a sickening wave of insight, I understood that my accusation would incubate until the poison of my words splintered our relationship. This man had been my hero, and I had walked with pride in his shadow. Now I stood alone, the soul protector of my beloved sister.
I picked up two of the water buckets and left my father in the torrential downpour. Pearl looked up from sorting our battery supply and her joyful smile melted the searing self-contempt that numbed me. Pearl was my raison d’être. I would avenge the sins perpetrated against her. If my father offered Virgile Landry clemency, then the duty of judge and executioner fell to me.
There could be no mercy.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sam
SAM JOGGED UP the hospital stairwell, pausing at the fire door that accessed the lockdown unit. She swiped her new employee keycard against the reader and heard a faint click. The steel knob turned when she tried it. Emily had won yesterday’s battle, apparently.
Dr. Beauregard had adamantly argued against granting Sam top clearance. Emily had presented her case with calm logic, explaining that Sam required unrestricted access to investigate Fadiya’s rape. Her reasoning had infuriated him, and he’d grown cantankerous and belligerent. His objections surrounding the clinical practicum mirrored Sam’s ethical concerns, but his belittling conduct was maddening.
The second point of contention concerned Sam’s insistence that they install a CCTV camera in Fadiya’s room. Mathias had again argued, stating that in-room cameras invaded patient privacy and created an unsafe therapy environment. They wouldn’t compromise another established policy to mollify a private detective with a psychology hobby. During Emily’s attempts to convince the insulting man that Fadiya required protection more than pri
vacy, Mathias’s active defiance, short-temper, and spiteful attacks shocked Sam. By the end of the two-hour meeting, she’d begun to fear the man was a malignant narcissist.
Now she had to attend a weekly staff meeting with the self-aggrandizing ass—so much for Emily’s assertion that she wouldn’t have to suffer Dr. Beauregard’s company.
Sam continued up the stairwell, exited at the top floor, and followed the corridor to the boardroom. At the end of the hall, the door to Dr. Beauregard’s enormous corner office stood open. Curious, Sam peeked inside. It was a blatant contrast to Emily’s modest office. A mammoth ebony wood desk with sloping sides carved in a reed design sat at centre stage. Polished nickel detailing on the edges emphasized the curved silhouette of the custom piece. Sam had never seen anything like it. The artisanship was exquisite. Two leather Arne Jacobsen egg chairs with matching footstools nestled intimately beside a wall of lake-facing windows. Sam tiptoed into the office and squatted to examine the cylinder base of one of the chairs. The sticker read Made in Denmark by Fritz Hansen. They were originals. Her mother had a set in her solarium and had paid over twenty-thousand dollars apiece.
Sam got to her feet and turned back to the door. On her way out, a hung lithograph caught her eye. Pablo Picasso had signed and dated the piece. When Ophelia had told her that Mathias Beauregard enjoyed nice things, she hadn’t exaggerated. His office was an opulent tribute to his own ostentatious elitism. It made her wonder why Emily claimed he had no funds to invest in Serenity Clinic. If he sold half the lavish furnishings, the money would cover the mould and coal dust remediation in the old cellar. Sam scurried out before someone caught her snooping, a transgression that would give Mathias the grounds he needed to terminate her placement.
In the boardroom, a sideboard displayed a variety of bagels and pastries. A delicious aroma of coffee wafted from a large urn on a drink bar in the corner. She’d skipped breakfast to squeeze in a quick workout before the meeting, and her mouth watered as she eyed the array of delectable pastries. She selected a flaky cheese croissant and took her treat over to the coffee bar. A group was queued at the station, chatting as they waited their turn. Too hungry to hold off eating, she bit into her buttery croissant.
