Honour Among Men

by Barbara Fradkin

  Green sucked in his breath. “Did you trace it?”

  “Dead end. It’s a new line registered to a company called BA Securities, but its owner is well buried. The credit card is a numbered account.”

  “Did the OPP request the phone’s logs?”

  “Yeah, they know a thing or two about investigation up here, Green.”

  Green ignored the bait. “Have you got the phone number? I’ll give it to our tech guys.”

  It was a local 613 area code and as Green scribbled it down, he thought it looked familiar. After signing off, he scrolled through the reports Gibbs and the other officers had entered on Patricia Ross’s activities until he found the record of calls made to the payphone in the lobby of her Vanier hotel during the week before her death. Detectives had traced all the numbers, including one made by a cellphone with a 613 area code just the day before her death. Detectives had been unable to track down either the owner’s name or the address, but the cellphone was registered to a BA Securities.

  Bingo. The dots were connecting.

  But what the hell did they form? And what, after days of intensive search and tons of shoe leather, did they really know for sure? He had a few suspicious names, a hint of conspiracy and cover-up, but the theory holding it all together was as flimsy and insubstantial as ever. Not one witness had seen Patricia Ross sharing a drink the night of her death. Not one witness had seen a suspicious man leaving the scene of Peters’ assault. Not a single fingerprint or shoe impression had been found to tie the killer to either attack. And as for motives, the speculation about war crimes was about as improbable as blue moons.

  He sat behind his desk, staring at the little piles of notes and messages that were scattered about in disarray. Had he missed something? All the crucial reports pertinent to the investigation were on computer, in a properly organized and managed case file. Yet maybe he had forgotten a little aside, not knowing its significance at the time.

  He began moving the notes around, rearranging piles and discarding irrelevant notes. Suddenly at the edge of a pile, half hidden by his phone, he spotted a note he’d never seen before. It was a scrawl on a phone message slip.

  “A friend called, said to tell ‘Mr. G’ to meet her at her art gallery at sunset.”

  Green stared at the message in disbelief. It was dated April 28 at four o’clock. Yesterday. “Jesus Christ!” He slammed out of his office, prepared to demand which incompetent idiot had taken it, when he realized that just after four o’clock yesterday, Weiss had called in Sue Peters’ attack, and everything else had gone out the window. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Mollified, he glanced outside and saw the late afternoon sun slanting off the windshields of the cars crawling west along the Queensway. He was a day too late, but maybe Twiggy was the patient type. If she had something to tell him, she might keep going back to the aqueduct until he turned up.

  Some day at end of July, 1993. Maslenica Bridge, Sector South.

  Our section just had our first night at the OP, sitting up on the top of this hill. Man, was it freaky! We’re supposed to be watching this bridge to count and identify each vehicle that crosses. Now this is not a real bridge, because the Serbs blew that up when the Croats invaded, so now it’s just a pontoon bridge that the Serbs lob artillery at all the time. We can hardly see it with binoculars, let alone ID the vehicle type.

  Anyway, there are Serbs in the hills behind us and Croats in the valley below, and they’re firing away at each other and the shells are whizzing right over our heads. Multiple rocket launchers. Whup, whup, whup when they launch. Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom a few seconds later when they land. And we’re going Holy Shit! And Sarge is on the radio, screaming to the Hammer, and the Hammer’s screaming to the OC, who’s down on the beach, to get us out of here. It’s a miracle we all survived. On the way down, the mountain was littered with corpses. You couldn’t even tell which side they were on, because they had no uniforms. We had to bag them and bring them down. I can still smell the stink on me.

  It was past seven o’clock, and the last rays of sunlight burnished the tree tops as Green headed west along Albert Street towards the aqueduct. The police tape had been removed from the crime scene, and every single piece of trash had been picked up by the Ident officers, leaving the little hideaway unnaturally pristine. The wall paintings glinted bold red and blue in the sun, but the place was empty. Not even the stoned teens or wasted drunks had returned, as if Patricia’s death still hung like a pall overhead.

  Green searched for telltale signs of Twiggy’s presence, but her garbage bag and her tattered pile of newspaper were nowhere to be seen. His shouts went unanswered. He climbed back into his car and tried to remember where she hung out. In the early days of her exile, she’d sometimes gone to the women’s shelters or the “Y”, but she’d resented their attempts to fix her life and preferred to take her chances on the open streets. She said shelters were for people who were trying to put their lives together. She had none left to put together.

  Nonetheless, he phoned around. The women’s shelters had not seen her, nor had the food bank or drop-in centres. With a growing sense of unease, he phoned the hospitals. It took a lot of wheedling and pulling rank, but eventually he got his answer. None of the hospitals had admitted a street woman fitting her description. It was small comfort that, had she turned up at the morgue, he would already have been informed.

  The sun was just below the horizon and the streets were sinking into shadow when he remembered her reference to the Tim Hortons on Bank Street. The manager there gave her coffee, she said, better than anything the police had on offer.

  Starting the car, he shoved it into gear and shot out of the parking lot through the traffic. He raced back towards downtown, did an illegal left turn onto Bank Street and parked in front of the modest coffee shop tucked between a magazine store and a shwarma take-out. The closed sign was up, but he could see someone sweeping inside. He hammered on the door and plastered his badge against the glass. The man’s scowl turned to consternation as he hustled forward to unlock the door. He had a Middle Eastern complexion with a heavy five o’clock shadow and the most mournful black eyes Green had ever seen.

  “I was just closing,” he said without a trace of an accent. “Is there a problem?”

  “Do you know a fat woman named Twiggy? She comes to your store for coffee.”

  “Yes.” The man’s eyes slitted warily. “Why? Is that a problem?”

  Why did the man assume a police officer always meant trouble? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. The world had changed for this man since September 11.

  Green found himself apologizing. “I’m sorry. No problem, I’m just concerned. She’s a witness, and I’m trying to locate her.” Belatedly he offered his hand. “I’m Inspector Michael Green.”

  The man stared at Green’s hand, then reached forward to take it cautiously in his. When Green didn’t bite, he seemed to relax. “Hassim Mohammed. And I haven’t seen her today. I’ve been worried, because she’s not a very healthy woman.”

  Green recorded his name and address. “When did you last see her?”

  “Two days ago? Thursday. She came for her coffee, then went off. She said she had a call to make. But there was a—” Alarm widened his melancholy eyes. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “I told her about a man who was asking about her. She asked me a whole lot of questions about him—like what name he called her—and I know she didn’t want him to find her.”

  The first fingers of fear brushed Green’s spine. “Can you describe this man?”

  “Dark business suit, Canadian.” He paused. “I mean white. He was wearing sunglasses, he had blond hair.”

  “Height and weight?”

  “Taller than you. Maybe six feet. Well built but not heavy. One-eighty?”

  “Age?”

  The man scrunched up his face and blew air into his cheeks. “Thirties? Maybe more. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasse
s.”

  Green probed with a few more questions, but the description did not improve. As it stood, it was too generic to be of much help and could apply to several of the men in the case. He suppressed his frustration with an effort.

  “What questions did this man ask you?”

  “Did I know her, where she usually stayed, when was she coming to my place again.”

  “And what name did he call her?”

  “None. He just called her the fat woman.” Hassim’s eyes had been growing larger with each question. “Is she all right? Has something happened to her?”

  “At this point I just want to locate her.” Green held out his card. “If she shows up, or you remember anything else, call me at that number. And I’d like you to come down to the station tomorrow to work with our police artist. We’ll see if we can work up a sketch.”

  “Oh!” Hassim’s eyes darted anxiously. “Well, the store . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Mohammed. It won’t take long, and it might help us find Twiggy.”

  He sighed with resignation as he took the card. “She was my teacher, you know. Grade Seven. But I don’t think she remembers me.”

  Oh, I’m sure she does, Green thought grimly. A profound wave of sadness and anxiety swept through him. But for Twiggy, that teacher doesn’t exist any more.

  NINETEEN

  Green hadn’t had the dream in years. It was a flashback more than a dream, so vivid that he often woke from it bathed in sweat. It began as it always did, with a call from dispatch about a reported domestic disturbance in Alta Vista, a quiet neighbourhood of winding crescents, leafy trees and sprawling bungalows. Professors, accountants and civil servants lived there, enjoying their perennial gardens and stone patios.

  It was a peaceful, starlit night in May when the call came in, and the streets were deserted. Green was wrapping up a routine canvass in a nearby apartment building on Bank Street, and he was only a few minutes away. As he listened to the agitated radio chatter back and forth between the responding officers and dispatch, he could hear a woman screaming in the background. Dispatch sent more squad cars and contacted the Tactical Unit, so soon the howl of sirens filled the quiet night.

  Green radioed in as he headed towards the scene. “I’m on my way in case they need CID.”

  When he arrived, the street was a mob scene. Cruisers blocked off the street, neighbours were hovering on front porches, shivering in their night clothes, and a dozen uniforms were deployed around the perimeter of a yard in the middle of it all. Radios barked and emergency roof lights splashed the scene with surreal red and blue.

  The house at the centre of the drama was eerily still. Light shone in the upstairs windows, but the screaming had stopped. An officer was training his binoculars on each window in turn. Green edged his way into earshot.

  “No signs of activity, sir,” the officer said to his patrol sergeant, who had just arrived.

  The sergeant swore softly. “Try phoning.”

  The phone rang endlessly through the house without response. The Tactical Unit arrived and used a bullhorn to order everyone inside to come out. Still nothing. The unit huddled together, planning their entry as the sergeant tried to establish how many lived in the house and who slept where. He conferred in an inaudible whisper with a man Green took to be a neighbour.

  Green wandered over to a group of neighbours clustered behind the barricades, who watched his approach with a mixture of excitement and shock.

  “Who called 911?” he asked.

  “Several of us did.” A tall, spindly man detached himself from the crowd. He was wearing striped pyjama bottoms and a terrycloth robe, which he hugged around himself. Despite it, he was trembling, and in the darkness his eyes were bright with fear. “I’ve already told the police what I know. Are you a reporter?”

  Green shook his head. “I’m Sergeant Green with Major Crimes.”

  “They’re a nice couple. He’s a professor, she’s a teacher. Never a loud word. Their boys are a handful, but they are so patient with them. Sweet Jesus, I hope nothing bad happened.”

  “What made you call 911?”

  “Her screaming. It woke me up. Screaming ‘Stop! Stop!’ Sweet Jesus, such an ungodly animal howl. And the chain saw was so loud.”

  Green’s mouth went dry. “Chain saw?”

  “He has one for the brush and trees. He always keeps such a beautiful garden. And he’s been helping all of us this spring, to clear out the deadwood, you know? Oh . . . God.”

  As much to keep his own wild imagination at bay as to keep the man focussed, Green stuck to the facts. “Did you see anything tonight?”

  “No, just shadows rushing in front of the blinds. As if a fight was going on.”

  “Do you know if there are firearms in the house?”

  There was a chorus of denials from the neighbours who had clustered around. “They’d never have guns.”

  “Don’t believe in them?”

  “And with the boys being ADHD and all . . .”

  Green held up his hand. “How many boys are there?”

  “Twins. Nice boys, just really busy, you know?” said the tall neighbour.

  “And slow,” interjected a woman at his elbow, whom Green took to be his wife.

  “Well, they were preemies,” he countered, “so they started off behind. They’ve needed a lot of help, poor little guys. They could be real trouble—used to be real trouble—before they got into the right school.”

  “Jean had to fight like hell for that,” added the wife darkly, apparently much less forgiving of the boys than her husband. “Costs a fortune for the two of them. Everything she and Sam make goes towards it.”

  Green jumped in again. “How old are the twins?”

  Husband and wife exchanged uncertain glances. “Ten?”

  “Big enough to handle a chainsaw?”

  The wife nodded, but the husband looked shocked. “Oh, no. They’re skinny little tykes. Behind, like I said.”

  “Anyone else in the house?”

  “Just Jean and Sam and the twins.” The man’s eyes were big as he strained to see what the police were doing at the house. “Sweet Jesus, I hope they’re all right.”

  Green thanked them and walked over to introduce himself to the patrol sergeant in charge. As they filled each other in, the tactical officers broke in the front door and disappeared inside. Green heard muffled shouts and thudding boots as the unit dispersed through the house. A few seconds later one of them shattered the glass in an upstairs window and screamed out, “Get the paramedics in here!”

  More boots thumping, more shouts, and one of the tactical officers staggered out to vomit in the rose bushes by the front door. “Mother of God, it’s bad,” muttered the patrol sergeant, echoing Green’s thoughts. The tactical guys were a tough bunch.

  The sergeant headed towards the front door, and Green scrambled to catch up. “We have to protect the scene,” he said, absurdly under the circumstances.

  The officer who’d been sick straightened up at their approach. He shook his head helplessly.

  “What’s the situation?” the sergeant snapped.

  “Bodies!” managed the man. “All in pieces. Arms, legs, heads . . . Fuck!”

  “Anyone alive?”

  The officer kept shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t think so. I don’t even know how many there are. I counted two heads. Kids.” He began to shake all over.

  The sergeant gripped his elbow and signalled to a nearby paramedic. “Go sit down, son.”

  One by one the paramedics and tactical officers emerged from the house, pale as ghosts and unsteady on their feet. Green heard the same muttered disbelief over and over. “War zone in there. Blood fucking everywhere.”

  The patrol sergeant looked at Green expectantly, as if to say it’s your case now. Your call, and good luck. Green fought his own dizziness and nausea as he tried to think. He needed to get his own partner over here. He had sent Sullivan home for the day, because he had three li
ttle kids and a soccer game to coach. Green kept the details to a minimum on the phone as he gave Sullivan the address. The man would know soon enough.

  The call seemed to ground him, for once he hung up, he felt his training kick in. “Call Ident, the coroner and the duty inspector,” he told the patrol sergeant. “I want everyone out of the house, and the scene secured. Don’t let anyone in but Ident, the coroner and myself. And I want the boots of every officer and paramedic who went into the house.”

  The orders given, he pulled on gloves, steeled himself, and stepped over the threshold. He had never seen so much blood. He knew the human body contained about five litres, and he’d seen much of it spilled on the floors and walls of previous crime scenes, but nothing prepared him for this. The blood was smeared all the way up the staircase, pooled in lakes at the foot of the stairs, and sprayed in a pulsing arterial line across the walls and ceiling of the living room where the husband lay.

  He stared at the ceiling, his throat gaping open and his thinning hair drenched in the blood that spread beneath his head. By his outstretched hand lay a long kitchen knife so covered in blood that it was barely recognizable.

  Green barely had time to turn away before vomiting on the hardwood floor at the foot of the stairs. He leaned on the bannister a moment, rested his forehead on his arm and tried to suck fresh air into his lungs. But the air stank of death. The stench of urine and feces mingled with the coppery scent of blood and the acrid smell of gasoline. His stomach rebelled again, but this time he fought the bile down.

  The rest of the downstairs was surprisingly neat and undisturbed. The small kitchen was packed with artwork and children’s toys. Yellow post-it notes were stuck on the fridge, the microwave and the cork board, containing reminders of doctors’ appointments, soccer games, homework assignments and even routines for cooking and cleaning up. Pinned to the wall by the back door, which was broken open by the tactical team, was another note. Remember to take your lunch and lock the door. At the bottom of the note, as on the others, was xxoox and a happy face.