by Mike Knowles
“I’m going to finish the case,” Os said.
“That was what you were doing there? You were going to get back in the car with me and pretend everything was kosher?”
Os nodded. “Best play I had.”
“How about calling the union and saving your job?”
“I don’t give a fuck about the job. We got a case.”
“We always got a case. Since when do you give this much of a fuck?”
“A cop was murdered,” Os said.
“Isn’t the first time. Last time a shield went down I believe your comment was, ‘Dumb fuck should have known better.’ And now, all of a sudden, you care enough to get fired? What the hell is going on with you?”
Woody was staring at Os with those spooky all-knowing eyes. Those eyes could see the things you hid in your head from everyone, including yourself. Os knew the kind of things Woody could come to understand with little more than a look; he also knew that he relied on reaction as much as deduction. Without the former, the latter lost some of its magic—not all of it, but sometimes enough. Os looked back into his partner’s eyes and said, “The case needs to get solved.”
“It will, but you need to listen to Jerry. Fuck me. Do you see what a corner you’ve got me in here? I’m telling you, Jerry is right.”
“Just give Jerry a report and meet me outside. We’ll see Ramirez, and then we’ll find the punks that did this.”
“I can’t do that, Os. This case—this murder—it’s fucking bad. I need to see it through. If I stick with you, Jerry will pull us both. You think Dennis will be able to finish this on his own?”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
“So while we’re juggling Jerry and Dennis, we’ll solve a homicide.”
“We’ve done harder things.”
“And when it goes to trial, and the defence tells the jury that a suspended cop was in on the arrest, what happens then? That can’t happen, Os. It just can’t.” Woody sighed. “Go home and call the union. I’ll talk to you tonight.”
17
Os could feel his heart beating in his chest. Everyone was turning on him. He wanted to knock Woody’s teeth in and drag the little pussy to meet Ramirez. All of a sudden, Woody forgot he had his own skeletons hanging in his closet. Os knew what Woody got up to at night, but he kept it to himself because that’s what cops do. He wasn’t going to spill it now either. Real cops weren’t rats. He’d have to explain that to Woody later. Os watched his partner walk down the hall and turn into Jerry’s office. Woody hadn’t looked back once. Os watched the office door close, and then he turned his back on the door and who was inside and shoved open the stairwell door. He walked down to the parking lot and got in his Jeep.
It felt weird seeing Julie’s desk again. Os hadn’t seen it since he followed Julie there months ago. He had seen her walk into the station, he knew the bounce of her ponytail well, and he had planned on wasting a bit of time getting to the door so that he wouldn’t have to talk to her. But she turned to hold the door for someone coming out and Os saw the bump. He went after her and cornered her at her desk. Os remembered the hate in her eyes when she turned around to see him coming. At first, she tried to deny that he was the father. She said she fucked around on him while they were seeing each other and that it was the best part of their relationship. But Os knew that she was lying. Getting lied to was his fucking day job. Julie was redlining Os’s bullshit detector and he told her so. She stormed off, leaving Os to reflect on his soon-to-be parental status. He had an hour with the idea of fatherhood until Julie followed him outside to the parking lot. She charged at Os like a rhino and slammed into him. All of her rage and momentum exploded against Os’s chest and then she fell back onto her ass. Os reached down to help her up, and she hissed, “Don’t you touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again!”
“Let me help you up.”
“Fuck you! You turned me into one of those women. The kind that blame themselves for a man hitting them. I swore I would never be one of those women, and you showed me I was full of shit. I really liked you and you turned me into a goddamn victim. That is never going to happen again. You hear me? I will never let you hurt me, or my baby, again.”
“I would never hurt the baby,” Os said.
“Oh,” Julie laughed. “You only hit women? Is that it? So, you’ll just hit me when you lose your temper and the baby can watch.”
Os felt the memory in the pit of his stomach. “It was a mistake, Julie.”
“You were the mistake, Os. You stay away from me. This baby is mine. If you ever come near us, I’ll tell everyone who will listen who turned my face black and blue. You understand me? I will ruin you.” Julie’s hand slashed the air and a hard slap connected with the side of Os’s face.
Os said nothing.
“Doesn’t feel good to be the victim, does it?”
Julie walked away and Os called after her. She whirled and stared at him. Her eye make-up was running down her cheeks. “You go to hell, Os.”
He realized those were the last words she ever said to him. Os knew she kept her word and said nothing about their relationship. Gossip travels faster than email in a police station, and he never once heard his name paired with Julie’s. Os stayed away. He wasn’t afraid of Julie’s threat. He knew that her admission of abuse would hurt her more than him. Fingering Os would make her another domestic violence statistic. That evidence being made public would shame her in front of the whole department. It didn’t matter that cops saw it all the time. Everyone would look at her different. She would be one of them—someone on the other side of the fence with the rest of the herd. She would take her victimization to the grave. Os figured he had done enough damage to Julie. He moved on and forgot about her and the baby. He never saw himself as a father, and the idea of being tied down made his skin crawl. Part of him, a part he was a little ashamed of, was happy with Julie’s decision.
It had been weeks since Os had even thought of Julie. Then he saw her on the bed and all at once a flood of thoughts and emotions spilled out. The baby was no longer something that he could forget. Dead or alive, he had to find her. If she were alive, he would find a safe place for her to go—he wasn’t single parent material. And if the baby was dead, Os would make sure the baby wouldn’t go into the dark alone.
Os put the Jeep in gear and exited the lot. He turned left and drove towards a breakfast place frequented by cops. He needed questions answered before the grapevine passed on word that he was suspended. Paying for a few meals would get him on his way.
18
Woody sat in one of the old worn-out chairs in front of Jerry’s desk and watched Jerry primp himself. The ritual involved smoothing his tie over and over again with no apparent effect on the wrinkles etched into the cheap fabric. Jerry caught Woody’s eyes on him and dropped the tie. “Christ, you look like shit, Woody. You look like a sweaty vampire.”
“I didn’t sleep last night. The scene kept me up.”
“I know what you mean,” Jerry said.
He didn’t.
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” Jerry continued. “I mean, Julie’s murder probably brought some stuff up for you. Are you sure you’re okay? You never took any time off after . . . you know. Tell me now if you’re not because I need you focused on this.”
“I’m fine, Jerry. Work keeps my mind busy. I need that. I’m just coming down with a bit of a cold that’s all.”
“I always take that vitamin C when I’m coming down with something. You ever try that?”
“I take stuff too,” Woody said. It wasn’t vitamin C, but it helped with the cold. Woody had been smoking too much the last few weeks to keep him feeling right. He promised himself again that as soon as he closed this case he was taking a few of his vacation days so he could get some rest and get back to normal.
Jerry looked like he wanted to keep talking about anything that wasn’t
Os. Woody figured Os had roughed someone up somewhere and his luck had finally run out. Judging by how fast Jerry tossed him out, there was probably a lawyer involved and threats to go to the press. Woody didn’t have time for small talk, so he shut Jerry up by getting out his phone. He pulled Dennis’s number from his contacts and pushed connect. When the other cop picked up, Woody told him that Jerry wanted an update. Dennis said he was too busy, and Woody found himself actually liking the guy for a second. Woody put the phone on speaker and placed the cell on Jerry’s desk.
“You’re on speaker with me and Jerry, Dennis. We’ll just do this on the phone.”
“Where’s Os?” Dennis asked. “He somewhere beating a suspect with a phonebook?”
Woody looked at Jerry and saw the detective sergeant looking uncomfortable. A second later, he shifted in his seat and got back to looking impassive.
“Forget about Os, Dennis. Where are you with the investigation?”
Dennis told them about meeting Julie’s psychiatrist. He also mentioned that the woman who called in the body had died in a car accident while she was crossing the street on her way to the pharmacy. Dennis figured the girl, who was bipolar herself, was hit hard by her friend’s death and went for some medication to help her get through. She was in a bad mental state and probably didn’t notice the car that hit her. The theory made sense to Jerry, judging from the way he nodded, but Woody didn’t like it. Two deaths so close together didn’t feel right, but Woody knew that he wouldn’t be able to sway the other two men into looking into it, not when they were still no closer to solving Julie’s murder. He filed the information away as Dennis went on. He told them that losing the neighbour was a blow because Julie didn’t seem to have a lot of friends. The uniforms who canvassed the building came across only a few people who knew her by sight alone. The doctor hadn’t been keen on giving him the names of other patients either. Dennis said he knew when the next bipolar meeting was scheduled and he planned to camp out there in a few days to catch the crazies coming out. The only immediate lead left was the mother. Dennis was on his way to the Arc to see her now, but he wasn’t hopeful.
“Why?” Jerry asked.
“She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“Fuck,” Jerry said.
“No one’s told her about Julie, so I guess that’s on me too,” Dennis said. “I’m looking forward to that alright.”
Woody gave Jerry and Dennis a rundown about what they found out from Ken Raines. Both agreed the Vietnamese angle had to be checked out. Woody said, “I’m meeting with Ramirez to talk about Julie’s cases in a little bit. How about we check in again around four?”
Jerry cleared his throat and said, “Two.”
“Two? Fuck, Jerry, you want this case solved or do you want to talk on the phone like a couple of twelve-year-old girls?”
Woody was liking Dennis again.
“Fine, fine, four then. But I mean four, not four fifteen or four thirty. Four o’clock.”
Woody said fine, Dennis agreed, and the call ended. Woody got up and started to leave. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “You didn’t know about Julie’s mother having Alzheimer’s, Jerry?”
Jerry shook his head. “As if this case couldn’t get worse, eh, Woody? Could you close the door behind you? I got to make a call.”
Woody watched Jerry smooth his tie for the phone call and then he walked out of the office and closed the door behind him. Os had said at breakfast that Jerry was the one who had told him about Julie’s mother having Alzheimer’s. The shrink confirmed it this morning, but how did Os know about it last night if Jerry hadn’t told him? Woody didn’t like the questions rolling around in his mind. He didn’t have to worry about them long—his phone rang, and it pushed all of the thoughts about Os to the back of his mind.
“Yeah,” Woody said.
“Ramirez will meet you at Burger, Burger, Burger—it’s on King. He’ll be there at noon.”
“Thanks, Ken.”
“No problem. Just make sure you get the guy.”
Woody hung up the phone and hustled down the stairs.
19
It was only eleven—Woody had an hour to get to a place that was only five minutes away. As he walked down the stairs to the parking garage, Woody ran his jacket sleeve across his forehead. The fabric of his trench coat dried the sweat. How could he be so hot again? The stairwell wasn’t heated, and it was three below outside. Woody took off the coat, hoping it would cool him down, but he was still uncomfortable. He took off the suit jacket and felt the air immediately chill the fabric of his shirt. His sides were colder than the rest of him, and he noticed that he had two large sweat stains under his arms. Woody touched one with a shaking hand. He hadn’t lied to Jerry; he spent the night awake. He’d paced the house trying to forget about Julie, only to start thinking about Natasha. He would start thinking about the case again just to temporarily forget about his dead family and the cycle would start all over.
He knew he could stop whenever he wanted. He was in control. He could have stopped right then and there if the cold wasn’t starting to get the better of him—maybe it was the flu. The lack of sleep and the case must have been hitting his immune system harder than he realized. Hell, he was forty now. Maybe the days of going on no sleep were over. Getting old sucked. He slept less, he was sore more often, and he apparently couldn’t shake the flu. The sweating and the shakes were new, and Woody knew they had to go. He couldn’t afford to let the flu slow him down, not with a case to solve. He needed to be able to focus to solve this murder. He was treading water alone, with Dennis on his back, pulling him under. He needed a hit to right the ship. No big deal, just something to get him through the flu until the case was over. Then he could rest. When he thought about it, he really owed it to everyone—Julie, her baby, Natasha—all of them. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of not letting them down.
Woody sped out of the lot and drove towards the highway. Fifteen minutes later, he was in a residential area in Ancaster. The upscale suburb had everything these days—shopping, restaurants, spas, and white-collar dealers. Woody did a drive by the house and cased the area for any familiar surveillance vehicles. He didn’t need one of his co-workers taking photos of him entering a known dealer’s house. There weren’t any vans on the street and no one was sitting low in any of the cars parked by the side of the road. Woody took a spot around the corner and got out. He opened the trunk and pulled out a down-filled winter coat. He changed his trench and suit jacket for the other coat and put on a baseball cap. With the hat pulled low, it would be hard, even with a telephoto lens, to make out his face.
Woody walked around the corner, passing houses with Block Parent signs in the windows and open garages full of toys. Woody kept his eyes on the sidewalk as he approached the red-brick house. He walked up the asphalt driveway to the brown front door, used a knuckle to ring the bell, and looked at his shoes as he waited. The door opened a few seconds later. Woody lifted his head just enough to see the face of the smiling woman inside.
“You’re back early, Charlie.”
Woody stepped inside the house and gave Joanne fifty bucks. The woman didn’t look like a drug dealer. The yoga pants and hoodie should have clashed with her age, but her cosmetically tightened skin and youthful bob camouflaged the wear and tear of more than half a century on the earth. Joanne looked at the money and smiled. “Wait right here, hon.”
Woody nodded and put his hands in his pockets. The waiting was the worst part. He always felt like he was on an episode of Dateline’s To Catch a Predator. He was waiting for a reporter to pop out and ask him why he was there and a swarm of cops to appear outside to sweep him up as part of a sting. As nervous as he felt, no one ever came back through the kitchen door but Joanne.
She placed a foil pouch in his hand. “You don’t look so good, Charlie. How much are you using these days?”
Woody pocketed th
e drugs and turned towards the door. “I’m okay, Joanne. I just didn’t get much sleep last night, and I think I’m coming down with the flu.”
“Un hunh, well I don’t mind selling to you so long as you got everything under control. I have customers, not addicts. People start noticing addicts around here and the party’s over.”
Woody opened the door. “Yeah, well, I’m fine. Like I said, I’m coming down with something. I just need a little to get me to the weekend.”
“Here,” Joanne said.
Woody turned back to see Joanne holding a small plastic bag with several pills inside. Woody stared at the bag and counted the pills. He didn’t know what they were, but he needed to know how much of them he had because he was already thinking about taking them. “For your cold. No charge.”
“What are they?”
“They won’t help you sleep, but they’ll make you feel like king of the world for about a day straight. A flu will feel like nothing after two of these.”
Woody took the pills without even considering it.
“Thanks, Joanne.”
“You just feel better, Charlie.”
Woody quickly walked back to the car and got his clothes out of the trunk. The pills went in his suit pocket and the heroin stayed in his fist. Woody got into the car and checked to make sure there weren’t any dog walkers or moms pushing strollers nearby. Satisfied the coast was clear, Woody pulled a pen out of the glove box; it was one of those cheap click pens that almost every store gave away at one time or another as a promotional item. Woody unscrewed the pen and threw the plastic tube holding the ink in the cup holder along with the spring and the end of the pen. He gave the street one last look before unfolding the tinfoil and reforming it into a V-shaped trough. He put the wide part of the pen in his mouth and held the tinfoil just below the window. The Bic lighter in Woody’s hand sparked to life on the third try, and the heroin changed states from a solid to a gas. In grade school, he had learned that the process was called sublimation. He couldn’t remember if it was still the right term if you heated the solid. The answer didn’t matter when the smoke hit his lungs. All he could think about was pulling every bit of what he bought into his body. It took forty-five seconds to have nothing left but a blackened piece of foil. Woody crumpled the foil, rolled down the window, and pitched it out. He kept the windows down and his elbows up while he drove back to the highway. The cold air rushing inside hit his damp armpits as he drove. Woody no longer had a chill. The flu had been beaten back for a little while. He smiled and turned on the radio. He would make it through to the weekend all right.
