by Anne Emery
“But Mum! Not now, I’m in line for the brownies!”
“Now, I said. Nanny is tired, and I’m getting one of my headaches.” A dejected Richard was marched from the room.
“Dolores!” Burke called to a capable-looking woman hovering over the teapot.
“Yes, Father?”
“Wrap up a couple of those brownies and put them aside for us, would you?”
“I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth, Father.”
“I’m thinking of a young child with a sugar deficiency.”
“Really, Father? What a shame.”
“Yes. The brownies should do the trick.”
†
Burke was buying at the Midtown that night. “Ed, when did you get religion?”
“Padre, I don’t believe in nuthin’. No God, no soul —”
“And I don’t believe there’s a bluesman anywhere on the planet who’s got no soul,” Burke stated placidly, striking a match to light a cigarette. He smiled at Ed through the sulphurous flame. “Not even one by the name of Johnson.”
“That was another Johnson. I never had a soul to sell, at the crossroads or anywhere else.”
Burke smiled. “If you say so.”
“I have no trouble seeing him as an agent of righteous wrath,” I chimed in, “avenging and burning his way through the damned and leaving no one standing. He certainly put the fear of God into me.”
“Good,” Ed replied. “It may come in handy in court someday, if we end up with a couple of losers pointing the finger at each other.”
“We’re not the only ones who were affected by Ed’s performance, Monty. You heard the formidable Mrs. Robertson.”
“Robertson?” Ed asked. “Richard’s old lady?”
“Yes. A man sitting next to her — one of the less fortunate among God’s children — took quite a fright when you did your piece. It was our old friend Vernon,” Burke said to me. “I saw him scurrying out of the pew. Vernon’s a homeless fellow,” he told Ed. “I don’t know what happened to him, but he walks with a limp.”
“Never heard of him!” Ed stated.
“Well, you’re not likely to have heard of him, Ed,” I answered. “It’s not as if he’s one of the minor modern poets. He’s a street guy, usually hangs out in Cornwallis Park. Maybe you’ve seen him there.”
“Any reason the poor benighted creature should be in fear of you, Johnson?” Burke asked. “You don’t put the boots to these down-and-outers when you pass them by, do you? Snatch the coins from their hands and tell them to get a job?”
“Are you serious?”
“No.”
“I don’t think Johnson’s quite that miserable, Brennan. And, after all, old Vern didn’t cower in fear at the sight of Ed’s cruel, mocking face; it was only when he heard the aria that he got a fright. I’d say it was the message, not the messenger.”
Ed shrugged. “Right. So. Full house. Pretty good take, I would think. Should pay your salary for another few months, Brennan.”
“It should do,” Burke agreed. “All slagging aside, Ed, you were magnificent on ‘Who May Abide.’ I hope you realize you’re mine now. Leaving the choir is not an option.”
“Thy will be done.”
“Good man.”
†
It was the beginning of summer vacation for the choir school boys, and the Canada Day long weekend for the rest of us. I put all my cases out of my mind and concentrated on the time I had with the kids over the holiday.
But the shootings claimed my attention again on Tuesday morning. I had established links, of a sort, between Dice Campbell and Corey Leaman; between Kenneth Fanshaw and Roman orgies in Dice’s building; and also between Fanshaw and Graham Scott. Graham had been on Ken’s yacht at least once, and there was also that scene in which Graham’s mother confronted Fanshaw at the charity dance. Had there been more between Graham and Ken than admiring the cut of each other’s jib? Felicia had as much as said Ken enjoyed male company now and again. She had also dangled before me the tale of Ken facing a possible drugs conviction and paying someone to take the rap. Was that someone Corey Leaman?
That afternoon I was sitting in the Look Ho Ho Restaurant on Bayer’s Road, kitty-corner from the RCMP headquarters, with Keith Nowlan. Keith was big and blonde and had the look of a football player. He had been a narcotics officer for as long as I had been practising law. The Mountie and I often faced off against each other in court, but we were on friendly terms outside the courthouse.
“Does Tim know you’re scoring coffee here?” I asked him.
“What do you think?”
“Right. We’ll keep it to ourselves.”
“Appreciate it.”
If word got around that law enforcement was stepping out and having coffee elsewhere, a corporate crisis could ensue at Tim Hortons HQ. Company shares would plummet, causing a panic on Bay Street.
“I’m wondering whether you can help me out with a bit of information from the past, Keith. I’m working on the Leaman and Scott murder-suicide, the lawsuit against the Baird Treatment Centre.”
“Right. Not everybody’s convinced that was a suicide.”
“That’s why I’m checking into the background of my victims. I don’t have to tell you there was some drug dealing going on in the past.”
“Oh, yeah. Your guy was quite the operator. It took us a while before we could catch him at it. But we finally nailed him, not for trafficking but possession for the purpose. He did time, not as much as he should have, but that’s always the way. From our point of view.”
“So what was the story?”
“The story was weird. We could never get a sighting of the buyer, but we heard it was an otherwise respectable citizen. Rumour had it your guy would score the drugs — cocaine, crack, occasionally heroin — from the usual suspects and then sell it to this most unusual suspect, but we couldn’t catch them at it, and it remained a rumour. We also heard that your client, the recently deceased, would charge Mr. Good Citizen premium rates, way above the going street prices. Presumably because the buyer didn’t want to take the risk of shopping around. There may have been a whiff of extortion in it too; the buyer was thought to be redistributing it in places where it wouldn’t do to be caught with drugs.”
He was using it to bribe street people into performing degrading acts at the Colosseum. If Leaman knew that, he could indeed have brought an element of blackmail into the negotiations.
“Do you know the name of the respectable citizen who was making the buys?”
“Sources remain tight-lipped on that one.”
“But you know the name.”
“We could never prove it; if we had, he’d have been sharing a cell with your client. But that’s old news. As far as we know now, the man has been doing nothing but good deeds in the past few years. If he ever slips up, though, we’ll have him in cuffs.”
I had little doubt that the buyer was Kenneth Fanshaw.
“So how much time did my fellow do?” I asked Keith.
“Three months, first offence. Typical slap on the wrist for a young offender.”
“When was this, do you recall?”
“Five, six years ago maybe.”
“But Corey was an adult by then.”
“Corey?” Nowlan asked.
“Yeah. Corey Leaman.”
“Why are we talking about Leaman?” Nowlan asked again.
“Well, all this drug history. With the Chamber of Commerce man.”
“That was Scott.”
“Scott?” No. No, he couldn’t be telling me that Canon Alastair Scott — whom I now pictured in full regalia as a High Anglican priest — was out there on a street corner buying heroin and crack.
“Collins, did I lose you someplace in the conversation here? You asked, and I told you. One of your clients who is now pushing up daisies, Graham Scott, was selling drugs to somebody important, who shall remain nameless until his guilt can be proven, and —”
“Graham Scott!”
“I’m going to call dispatch, Collins. Get you some help.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The whole time I was thinking of Corey Leaman. He had a drug history too. I had no idea that Graham Scott was the one you were talking about.”
“I’m talking Graham Scott. Smarmy little bastard with his Topsiders and his top-grade blow.”
“All right. So I have two convicted drug dealers lying dead in the parking lot of the Fore-And-Aft.” I drained my coffee cup and put it down. I took out my wallet and pulled out a fiver, signalling to Keith that the coffee was on me. “What put you on to Graham Scott? Was he known to you guys?”
“Not to us. We have the city police to thank for the tip. Fellow over there gave us the name.”
“I wonder if there would be any point in talking to him.”
“Doubt it. He turned in his badge.”
“How come?”
“He’s taken up another calling.”
Warren Tulk. “A kinder, gentler calling?”
Nowlan laughed. “Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hey. The guy helped us out. I’m not going to badmouth him now that he belongs to Jesus.”
“Keith, I appreciate it.”
“Sure, Monty. See you around.”
†
It was time to look for someone who could talk to me about Graham Scott, I decided as I drove to my office. Obviously I couldn’t ask his parents for a lead. I remembered that he had a sister and two brothers, but any approach to them would be reported to the canon and his wife. Probing into their son behind their backs would not induce in them the tender feelings our firm tried to inspire in its clients. I considered questioning his girlfriend but then thought the better of it; there was no point alerting her at this stage to the possibility that I was looking at someone besides Corey Leaman for the killing. I thought the news reports about Graham’s death might provide me with a name or two. After I got back to my desk and made calls on another of my cases, I retrieved the Leaman/Scott file and discovered a few clippings I had glossed over earlier. I came up with two names, a guy and a girl who had spoken about Graham at his funeral. I started making calls until I reached the girl. She agreed to meet me at her place after work. Would I like to speak to her boyfriend at the same time? It turned out he was the other eulogist. Perfect, I told her.
But it was clear two minutes into the conversation at their South Street flat that they had nothing useful to offer. They had been childhood friends of the victim and had more or less been dragooned by his parents into speaking at the funeral. They had fallen out of touch with Graham and had seen very little of him from about grade ten onwards. Without being explicit, they gave me the impression that Graham had turned away from his old friends and started hanging around with a rough crowd. Could they give me any names? They exchanged glances and she said: “Maybe Matty Fuller. If he’s around.”
“She means if he’s not in jail.”
“Where does he live, any idea?”
“The Pubs maybe. I’m not sure.”
The Pubs were a public housing project close to the Halifax Shopping Centre in the city’s west end. I would try to track him down as soon as I had time. I thanked them and left.
†
I then had to make a quick appearance in provincial court. When I got there, I found Ed Johnson grasping the banister upstairs and glaring down at nothing in particular.
“You seem a little tense, Edward. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, if it’s nothing, why are you —”
“Some Bar Society shit. Nothing to worry about.”
“What is it?”
“A client made a complaint about me. With the Barristers’ Society.”
“So? We all have complaints made about us. They don’t come to anything because they’re bullshit. Right?”
“Yeah, but —”
“But what?”
“This one may not go away.”
“What happened?”
“I kind of roughed this guy up a bit.”
“You beat up a client?”
“No, of course not. If I was going to do that, I’d have done it years ago. And done a proper job of it. This guy I just grabbed by the collar and, well . . .”
“Well what?”
“I gave him a shove, and he fell off his chair.”
“Was he hurt?”
“No!”
“What brought this on?”
“I had this guy on certificate from Legal Aid because his mother is a long-time Legal Aid client. Family matters, not criminal. Always chasing the kid’s father for child support. But the son had a conflict with the mother, so they put him out on certificate and he came to me. Charged with assaulting his mother. He held a knife to her throat and said: ‘You don’t tell me what to do, bitch.’”
“Is she all right?”
“She was cut. Superficial wound, fortunately.”
“What brought this on?”
“Who the fuck knows? I lost it when I had this guy in my office. He sat there, slumped in his seat with a smirk on his face. Instead of the usual rational approach like ‘tell me what happened’ or ‘what’s your story,’ I said: ‘What kind of a man would take a knife to his own mother?’ The guy says: ‘Bitch deserve it.’
“I just fucking lost it. I grabbed him by his collar and shoved him to the floor. Never touched him again, but I lit into him with words. Was that a manly thing to do? Attacking his mother? Where did he get off, calling his mother a bitch? The woman who gave him life, who changed his shitty diapers, who kept him fed and dressed and took him to school and kissed him when he cried. The only parent who stayed with him. Because the father sure as hell didn’t. He fucked off when the kid was two years old and never paid a cent to support him. Why not go after his father, if he was such a tough guy? He’s the one who let him down. Fucking dirtbag, I wish I had him here right now. I can’t wait to get into that disciplinary hearing! I’ll tell them exactly what I just told you.”
“You’ll tell them nothing of the kind. You’ll let your lawyer do the talking.”
“Fuck it!”
I talked to him for a few more minutes till he calmed down. Then I made my quick appearance in court and left the building.
†
Matty Fuller was a big hulking guy of around twenty-five. Thursday afternoon I stood with him on the front porch of his townhouse in the Pubs. Fuller was as jumpy as a rabbit; he only half emerged from his door, and his large brown eyes kept darting to the street behind me. I resisted the urge to join him in checking behind my back.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Matt.”
“No prob’m.”
“As I explained, I’m trying to find out something about Graham Scott.”
“Like what?”
“Like did he have any enemies that you knew of, or disagreements with anyone in the time leading up to his death?”
“I thought Leaman took him out behind the bar.”
“He most likely did. I’m just checking around. So, did you know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”
“Coulda been he pissed off a supplier.”
“Do you know whether he did?” Fuller shrugged. “Any other possibilities come to your mind?”
“I gotta go, man.”
“All right. But this is important. If there’s anything you can tell me —”
“Mighta been those letters.”
“Letters?”
“Dude say Scott sendin’ him letters.”
“What dude?”
Another shrug. “A suit. Seen him on TV.”
“Do you know his name?”
He shook his head, stuffed his fists down in his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Gotta split.”
“How do you know about these letters?”
“Dude show up at Scott’s. I was there and seen him.”
“Where was Scott living at the time?”
<
br /> “Robie Street.”
“What did the man look like?”
“A suit.”
“I know you can do better than that, Matty.” I finally got a description out of him that could have covered Kenneth Fanshaw. Of course it could have covered any number of other businessmen as well, but I liked Fanshaw in this role. There was a connection between the two of them, a connection that upset Graham’s mother, though she may have got it backwards: maybe it wasn’t Fanshaw who had been leading Graham astray. Graham was selling street drugs to Fanshaw at inflated prices. Did Fanshaw turn around and use these drugs to coerce addicts to fight and perform sexual acts for the amusement of the Romans at the Colosseum? If so, it wasn’t difficult to predict what the letters might have said.
“What did this man say about the letters?”
“He say: ‘If I get any more of this fucking shit in the mail I’ll cut your fucking hands off so you can’t even deal pencils on the street.’”
“And what did Graham Scott say to that?”
“Graham just laughed and told the guy to suck his dick.”
“When was this?”
“I dunno. Long time.”
“How long?”
He shrugged.
“Was anything said about the contents of the letters?”
“I don’t remember him sayin’ nuthin’ about that. I gotta get outta here.” With that, he pushed past me, jumped down from the porch and disappeared around a corner.
I was left wondering how on earth I could find out more about these letters. Did they constitute blackmail? A motive for murder?
I returned to my office and added my impressions of Matty Fuller to the Scott and Leaman file. Then I skimmed the notes that had been dropped off by Doctor Gareth Swail-Peddle. There wasn’t much of interest: a few references to CL — that would be Corey Leaman — needing more treatment, and a lot of pages that were blanked out.
“You’re sure you don’t want a weekend in New York?”
I looked up, startled. Brennan was standing in the doorway to my office. “I’m on my way to the airport. It won’t be all church, you know.”
“Don’t I know it! I’ve met your family, after all.”
