“Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.” I said it under my breath and inhaled the smells. Old sweat from the guy on the steel picnic table bolted to the floor as he did sit-ups.
“One thousand and six …”
There was the musk of urine and semen from the guy sitting beside the crier as he jerked off into his boxers. And from two Asian men wearing leather and silk clothes suitable for night clubbing there was the faint aroma of pepper spray. And the thickened reek of dirt and shit off the crummy and crumbling old man asleep on the floor.
And in my ears was the sweet ever-changing flow of lies and bad advice echoing off the concrete and the steel. “You gotta teach them bitches respect, right? If she ain’t scared then she ain’t loving you the right way. So you use a wire coat hanger, a wire one, you hear me …”
“So you got a good case for wrongful incar-cer-ation which means muy dinero, my friend …”
“… and he just kept getting up …”
“… but you want sharp, real sharp, you got to go ceramic, walk right through a metal detector, man …”
“Well. I had me a Mustang with a sweet eight cylinders just as slick as a pussy …”
Home.
One of the guys got up from his seat and came over towards me. He was a little taller and a little heavier than me with blond hair cut short and violet eyes.
“Do I know you?”
He was wearing jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that advertised that the wearer was “badgerous.” I wondered what badgerous meant and decided it meant something unhappy.
“You look like someone I know …”
“No … I don’t think you know me.”
“Yeah, I know you.”
There’s always some asshole who thinks they know how prison works. Some moron who thinks you have to prove to the other guys how bad you are, generally by beating the shit out of someone else. The truth is most cons are pretty polite. If you’re not polite, someone will pour a bucket of cleaning solution into your cell when you’re asleep and toss a match. Which a friend once called “bake and shake,” because the body keeps twitching for a long time, even after the fire dies down.
Or you’ll get a visit from two or three guys with shaved broomsticks and ground down files. Or something worse.
So cons are pretty polite.
So I looked at the guy and shook my head.
“Nope.”
He was coming closer and I did the math. The guys in the cell were backing away; there was no loyalty, no solidarity in the place, because a holding cell was exactly that, a place to keep people, which meant there were petty crooks in along with mutts like this guy. Which meant no one would interfere; they all wanted to be entertained.
Also a fight might lead to charges that could be used by a snitch to get out of their own troubles.
The other prisoners made a circle about five feet across for the two of us. Since it was a short-term holding cell it meant that Mr. Badgerous probably didn’t have a weapon, he wouldn’t have had time to make or buy one. Which left us with fists and feet and my imagination, if things got physical, which was good, ’cause I was probably better than he was.
“Fuck off.”
His face got red and he started to say something but I didn’t let him finish. “I’ve been in the system for most of my adult life. I’m guessing you haven’t. I have been in Drumheller and Kingston and Atlantic and Port-Cartier and Millhaven and Kent and I have seen things and done things that you cannot even imagine. This place isn’t the real world, so listen to me; walk soft or you will get hurt. And especially leave guys like me alone.”
He stared around looking for backup but no one said or did anything and finally he opened his mouth.“Sounds like a threat.”
I was fighting a losing battle. I do not look impressive. I am slightly over six feet tall and about 180 pounds with very pale skin covered in old scars. My eyes are pale grey and my hair is dirty blond and cut with a razor. I do not look scary enough to avoid fights, at least to some people.
“No, it’s not. I am having a bad day right now and I would love to take it out on you but it’s not a threat. I am giving you information you should have before you do anything.”
“Fuck you, pal; I’ve got a green belt in Goju-Ryu Karate and am a second-degree black belt in Hapkido …”
I yelled, “Fire!”
It was a universal call. Much better than yelling “Rape” or “Murder.” Claire had told me that years before, if you yell “Fire” people look, if you yell “Rape” they might decide not to get involved. She had learned that lesson from a self-defence teacher at the Banff Community Centre.
When the screw arrived ten seconds later everyone else in the cell was minding their own business, especially Mr. Badgerous.
“Who yelled fire?”
“Me.”
It was a girl screw, blond and plump and breathing hard. She looked around. “Where is it?”
“I must have made a mistake. Any chance I can get a private cell?”
She snorted and I leaned towards her and whispered, “I feel like maybe I don’t belong here. You might wanna talk to one of the cops who dragged me in about that. They might want me moved.”
The screw was confused and stepped back to think about it. After a while she took me out and put me in a different cell block where everyone left me alone.
And time passed.
Jail’s good at making time fly.
Two hours later my lawyer Lester came onto the range with a fat sheriff who unlocked the iron door and let me out. Up close Lester was rumpled and smelled of vodka and his dandruff was still amazingly bad. He had been my lawyer when I’d first been arrested in Winnipeg and he’d done a good job dealing with three charges of murder one plus drug possession and assorted other things.
He’d also done a good job getting me freed later that year when I’d been arrested for bank robbery.
“Monty!”
“Les! Am I free?”
Lester looked at the sheriff and then back at me. “Sort of. Not really. It’s complicated.”
He took me by the arm and off a few steps down the hallway to where there was some privacy. “Monty, some detective wants to talk to you about the bracelet.”
“No charges? Just questions?”
Lester shrugged and a rain of flakes fell to cover his shoulders. “None. Just questions. They’re willing to let me sit in. They’ve even apologized.”
That made me pause. Cops never say they’re sorry. I was still puzzling that out as I was escorted through the old cell blocks and then down two floors to Major Crimes, which had its own office. My stomach twisted as I entered but the first person to come towards me had a huge smile on his face and that made me pause as well. When cops smile it’s generally bad for me, I’ve learned that over the years.
“Mr. Haaviko?” The cop was a thin man with a skull face and black hair cut short over warm brown eyes that looked friendly and sorrowful at the same time. “So sorry about the arrest. You’ll understand when we’ve explained a few things though.”
Lester nodded like he knew what was going on and it crossed my mind that he might be drunk. Then I figured probably not.
The cop went on, “I’m Sergeant Osserman. The reason this has taken so long is because we were waiting for Inspector Atismak.”
He turned and Atismak got up from a desk and came towards me, a big man in an expensive suit who moved well. He was Royal Canadian Mounted Police and not city and he didn’t seem to be in his jurisdiction here. It pissed me off; the whole situation pissed me off, none of it made sense. Atismak was very much a pro and had cut me slack when I’d been dealing with Walsh which meant, I figured, that I owed him big. He’d also interposed himself between Walsh and my family and that meant I owed him even more.
We shook hands grudgingly and he looked me straight in the eye as he did it. He was smart, I knew that. And Osserman bringing him in to deal with me meant he was smart too and so my respect for him went up
a notch. He led the way to a boardroom with windows overlooking the city’s tiny but vibrant Chinatown and we all sat down around a wooden table big enough for a dozen fat men.
“Okay, Mr. Haaviko, let me explain.” Osserman spoke fast. “The bracelet you brought to Grim’s was hot. Stolen sixteen years ago. So.” He smiled and it looked like a fresh knife wound. “Where’d you get it?”
I turned to Lester who just shrugged and then at Atismak and Osserman in turn.
“Okay, I know what you want. And I know you want me to answer. Honestly and quickly which is why you are laying your cards down. Finish it off; show me the file. I want to know you are not jerking me around.”
“Why?” Osserman’s voice was flat and mean.
“Because I don’t really trust you. This wouldn’t be the first time a cop lied to me. And the story doesn’t make sense—this much heat on a sixteen-year-old robbery? No. So explain to me what exactly is going on.”
Osserman looked me over and I shook my head. “The fact you’re even thinking of showing me the file means something.”
Osserman nodded. “It means some of the crimes that are dealt with in the file occurred when you were in prison. It means you are not a realistic suspect.”
“Prove it.”
Osserman started to get mad and Atismak silenced him with a raised hand. They went outside and spoke quietly with their backs to the doorway. Then Atismak came back and said, “One minute.”
He sat down and Osserman took off. Twenty minutes later he came back with a legal-sized manila folder two inches thick. He slid it down the table to me and both men waited while I went through the typed pages, photographs and drawings. As I finished each page I passed it to Lester. When I handed him the photos he gagged suddenly and vomited into a garbage can.
Mostly.
Everyone ignored him.
When he was finished throwing up Atismak pushed the can outside and let Lester go find a bathroom to clean up.
I finished leafing through the photos, and then I tapped them into place and slid them into the folder again. The smell of vomit was sharp in the air but it didn’t really register. When I spoke I could hear the exhaustion in my voice.
“I see.”
Osserman nodded. “Yes.”
Atismak stood up and said, “Mr. Haaviko, nice to see you again. I take it you will help the sergeant?”
“Certainly. Can I call my wife though?”
“Of course. Here.”
He handed me his cell phone and I dialled. While the call went through I memorized Atismak’s number and then Claire was on the line. “Yes?”
“Monty here. Everything’s fine. I should be done in an hour or so. Lester’s with me.”
“Well … that’s good. Is he drunk?”
I looked over at him and said no into the phone. Atismak gestured with one finger and I told Claire to hold on. Atismak said, “Tell her hello from me. Tell her I remember the coffee and doughnuts fondly.”
When Atismak and the RCMP had searched my house Claire had laid out doughnuts and coffee to greet them. He was smiling as he spoke and I repeated the message. Claire said, “Say hello back. Atismak is RCMP, right? What’s he doing there?”
“No idea.”
We were both silent and then she said, “Come home soon.”
“Of course. Love.”
“Love.”
She hung up and I flipped the phone to Atismak who put it away. “Thanks, Inspector.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Then he got up, rotated his shoulders and left.
#16
When Lester came back Osserman started to speak. “It was a burglary at Redonda Paris’s jewellery shop. July first, 1992. As far as we can tell the perp broke in, triggered the alarm and hid in the crawlspace above the ceiling tiles in the back. Ms. Paris arrived after the cops and checked the place over with our men. They found nothing.”
Osserman ran his thin, spatulate fingers through his hair. I could see them tremble slightly.
“The cops left. Then, we believe, Ms. Paris sealed the broken window with lumber from her back room. At that point we believe the perp came out of hiding and took control of the situation.”
I listened and heard Lester swallow convulsively. Osserman kept talking.
“We estimate, and the RCMP concurs, that it took the perp five or six hours to finish. Ms. Paris was probably alive up until the last half-hour or so.”
I flipped the folder open and looked at some of the photos. “I see.”
Osserman exhaled loudly. His voice was very cold. “Do you? Interesting choice of words. Ms. Paris was raped. Thirty-seven bones were broken throughout her body. More than fifty bite marks were inflicted on her body; those were the ones that broke the skin. Before she finally died she was taken apart with a chipped flint or glass blade about four inches long.”
Osserman paused, took two pills from an inner pocket and dry swallowed them. “She died alone. When the killer was done he cleaned up in her bathroom and then cleared out her stock of custom jewellery and maybe $200 in cash. Then he left.”
Lester fidgeted in his chair and Osserman marked off points on his fingers. “We have DNA from semen. We have hair samples from the floor around her and from off the remains of her clothes. We have skin samples from under her fingernails. We have blood from where the FUCK …” his voice cracked, “bit his tongue or cheek. We even have fingerprints. However we do not have a suspect. So when jewellery made by Ms. Paris shows up we are very interested indeed.”
Lester looked pale and so did the cop. Even I was feeling green.
“So,” I started, “you sent pictures of her jewellery to all the shops in the city. Pawn shops, jewellery stores, and so on?”
“Yes.”
Osserman was getting impatient and I stared at him.
He was lying. Con rule: if a cop is talking and not asking questions then they are lying. None of it rang true. I thought it through again. A murder sixteen years ago and the cops were still keeping it active? That wasn’t right. The city averaged twenty to thirty plus murders a year which meant that there would be 300-plus corpses between now and Paris. Not counting rapes, assaults, child abuse cases and all the rest of the nightmare shit that was a cop’s life; no way would they be able to keep a single crime in the forefront. No matter how gruesome.
I stared at him and wondered why he was lying to me.
But the pictures were real or incredible fakes and sometimes you have to balance everything out and make a decision. Most of the time making a decision, any decision, was better than waiting.
So I made a decision and told Osserman to get a tape recorder. When it came in I told him everything, including finding the package, the roses, the note, everything I could remember. Nothing I supposed or suspected. When I was done a uniformed cop brought me my belt, wallet and pocket knife and Lester and I went downstairs to the street. He gave me a lift home in a beat-up Volvo he kept in good working order himself on the weekends, when he wasn’t playing softball or getting juiced.
He drove badly for about five minutes and finally pulled over, took a slim flask from his briefcase and swallowed convulsively as the sharp stench of peppermint schnapps filled the air.
“Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ.”
It was dusk and dragonflies were filling the air, part of an environmentally friendly assault on mosquitoes. Those vampires were one of the biggest drawbacks of Manitoba as far as I was concerned, so I watched the predators flit around and thought about what I’d been told and what I’d seen in the cop office.
In prison you run into the occasional minor-league psychopath. More often you’d find the sociopaths, but Ms. Paris had encountered the real deal—a full-blown sadistic sexual psychopath. And those did not go to prison; those end up in asylums mostly. Occasionally I’d run into them out on the streets or working their way through the court system. On the street they generally slipped into crime because they couldn’t function in society and they didn’t l
ast too long, as they didn’t have great control over their needs and urges.
In the court system they generally tripped warning signals along the way and were escorted into solitary cells so cons didn’t spend much time with them.
Once or twice though I’d found them or they’d found me. There’d been a pimp in Edmonton who liked to turn out young girls, younger every month, until he was putting ten-and eleven-year-olds out on the street to service businessmen going to work to sell oil or coming home after a hard day buying oil. He kept his girls in perfect control and they were known for their willingness to do absolutely anything. Finally one of the girls got friendly with another streetwalker, who found out the girls were all from the same town up near the Yukon border, a place called Hazard. The girl had told the other hooker something else too, something she hadn’t told anyone else, not ever.
The next day the hooker found me in the bar I was propping up and traded me an eight ball of coke and two hours of sex for a chopped and channelled Iver Johnson .30 calibre carbine I’d been intending to keep for myself. She put it in a shopping bag and the next morning she unloaded on the pimp as he walked out of his favourite corner store eating a drumstick ice-cream cone.
She’d opened fire from thirty feet away and kept walking towards the man as the small-calibre bullets kept him upright and twitching. At about ten feet her magazine had run dry and she’d reloaded with another thirty-round magazine and finished him. Then she’d dropped the gun and walked away.
The coroner had pulled forty-nine soft-nosed surplus World War II lead bullets from the body.
They’d never caught the hooker.
Over time the girls the pimp had brought left. Just melted away into the street and were gone.
Another time I’d run into a guy in prison who thought that bugs were eating his nervous system and the only way to keep them out was to make little cuts on his arms and legs to let them out. The cops caught him for public indecency—he’d masturbated on the window of a downtown Montreal restaurant—and had put him into remand while awaiting trial. In remand he hadn’t been able to get his hands on a knife so pressure had built up.
A Criminal to Remember (A Monty Haaviko Thriller) Page 8
