This Thing of Darkness

by Barbara Fradkin

  “Are there other people who can identify this mystery woman?”

  “Maybe others in the apartment building. It’s worth showing the line-up to them.”

  To his surprise, she stood up. “How far are these forensic bays?”

  “Down at headquarters.”

  “We’ll take my car. I’ll drive.”

  He flexed his bandaged hands. “No, I can—”

  “You’re in shock, Mike. I’ll drive.”

  “But what about Tony? Hannah?”

  “Hannah is more than capable.” Sharon was heading down the street when she turned and slipped her arm through his to pull him along. “Come on, Mike. This is one way I can share the burden a bit with you.”

  He felt his steps quicken. It would fill the long, agonizing hours of waiting, and it would give him a much-needed focus. It would ensure that what Lindsay started did not die with her, and give him something to report to Sullivan when he finally woke up.

  “Oh my God.” Sharon breathed the words with awe. They were standing inside the first forensic bay in front of what was left of Green’s beige Impala staff car. It was still sitting on the flatbed tow truck, awaiting the first of the forensic collision specialists. Involuntarily she reached over to clutch his arm. “You could have been in there.”

  Amid the despair and self-recrimination of the past six hours, that thought had never occurred to him. His reaction now surprised him. If only he had been, instead of Lindsay Corsin.

  “It’s hard to be comforted when a young woman is dead and a rookie patrolman faces months of rehab.”

  “How is he?”

  The ambulance had taken the young man to a different hospital, but his partner had been phoning in with regular updates. “Broken bones, ruptured spleen, concussion. Not to mention every inch of his body is in pain from the impact.” He studied the jagged hunk of metal in the brilliant light of the overhead beams. The truck had hit the rear right corner, and its higher bumper had ridden right up over the trunk, crushing the rear and side windows. The vehicle parked in front of the Impala had blocked its forward momentum, causing it to crumple like an accordion.

  Sitting on the right side, Lindsay hadn’t stood a chance, as the relentless bumper, having demolished the trunk and the seat back, zeroed in on her skull. Sullivan must never see this, Green thought.

  The duty officer was standing at their side with the sign-in log in his hand. He shook his head. “Hell of a mess. I see it all the time when these supersized pick-ups and SUVs hit passenger cars. Even worse with the tractor trailers, of course. We’d have been scraping her up off the pavement.”

  Green gave him a sharp look before turning to look at the pick-up in the next bay. Sullivan’s new pride and joy, intended to carry him not only out to deer hunting camp but well into his retirement years as well. It had sustained almost no damage beyond the shattered windows and the crumpled grill, but Green doubted Sullivan would ever be able to look at it again. He could still see the bloody threads of his jacket caught on the glass shards of the driver’s window.

  Sharon was still holding his arm and her grip tightened. “You pulled him out through there?”

  It looked impossible, yet he barely remembered the strain, only the desperation. And something else. David Rosenthal hammering Sullivan’s chest with a sharp blow, a risky move that can do more harm than good at the hands of a novice. Not for the first time, Green wondered what would have happened to Sullivan if Rosenthal hadn’t been there.

  He shivered and strode briskly up to the cab of the pick-up. He peered inside and there, strewn across the floor of the passenger side was a sheaf of papers. He was about to grasp the passenger side handle when his years of training kicked in.

  “Has Ident been here to photograph all this?”

  The duty officer shook his head. “Tomorrow, they said. They’re still at the scene.”

  Green remembered the pair of them consulting with the collision investigators and fanning out over the scene. They had videoed and photographed every inch of the crash site, including the truck, from every angle, inside and out. That ought to be enough. He grappled with the handle in his bandaged hands and began to search through the papers, lifting the edges carefully so as not to disturb the array of photos.

  It was a good line-up. They were all photos of young women in partial profile, most of them stock photos from police archives doctored to appear amateurish. Only one did he recognize—the grainy photo of the hooker from the pawn shop security camera. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before scooping the photos back into their folder and taking them all out of the truck. It went against all procedure, but he was the boss of this whole section; he didn’t have to seek permission.

  Sharon had been pressing in, peering over his shoulder. Now as he straightened up, she looked at him expectantly. “How do the photos look?”

  “It might be hard to identify the woman, but it’s worth a try.” He signed the duty officer’s log and headed out of the garage.”

  Sharon scrambled to follow him. “What now?”

  He glanced at his watch. Nine thirty. “Now’s as good a time as ever. Maybe I can catch some of the other tenants at home.” He glanced at her. “If you want to go home, my own car is right over there. I should be able to drive.”

  She was eyeing the folder with alarm, as if she were worried about his obsessive state. But paradoxically, he felt better than he had since the accident. He had something to do. But she shook her head as she opened the driver’s door. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’re post-traumatic, and whether you know it or not, your judgement is impaired.”

  He snorted but didn’t rise to the bait. What did she think twenty-five years on the force had taught him? Instead, he let her drive while he turned his attention to the photo. The photography tech had done a nice job of cleaning up the prostitute’s image. Green could make out a fur coat falling open over her chest and long, loose hair framing a pale, delicate face. On second inspection, she didn’t look as young as he’d thought. Her facial muscles carved valleys that gave her the apprehensive yet defiant expression of a woman who’s spent years on guard against something ill-defined and hostile.

  They were stopped at a red light, and he sensed Sharon’s eyes straying to the photo curiously. He held it up for her. “With every street person there’s a story to be told.”

  “How do you know it’s a street person?”

  “I don’t. But she was out on Rideau Street by herself dressed like pretty much every other street prostitute, around the time of Sam Rosenthal’s murder. Hardly the time for a regular stroll.”

  Sharon said nothing, instead dedicating herself to the challenge of navigating downtown on a Friday night. The streets were full of young people walking in clusters, some headed for the clubs, others on cellphones trying to make plans, some perhaps even going to spend much needed time at the university library. Nelson Street was still partially cordoned off as the last of the investigators measured marks on the pavement and sampled minuscule bits of debris, all to aid them in their reconstruction of the accident. The crowds of onlookers had long gone, and Number 235 had a dark, forlorn look. Two of its five occupants were dead.

  Two of the other occupants were not home, but a light shone in the window of the top floor. He and Sharon climbed the stairs, and as they drew nearer, Green heard the chatter of a young child and the sound of running water. Eventually an East Indian man answered the door with a pyjama-clad toddler on his hip. He looked damp from exertion, and his expression was wary. Probably understandable, given the murder, the break-in and the accident outside the building.

  When he spotted Green’s badge, his wariness vanished. “I already told the police everything I know,” he said in a precise Indian accent. “I wasn’t here, and my wife was in the back. All she heard was a bang.”

  “It’s not about the accident, sir. I have some questions about Dr. Rosenthal.”

  “I’m very sorry about him. His son was alr
eady here earlier, telling my wife he was going to sell the building.” The man’s eyes flashed with anger. “I have only six months left on my course work, then I return to Sri Lanka. It is very inconvenient for us.”

  “I wouldn’t worry just yet. I would wait for the official word from the estate executor,” Green remarked drily. “May I have your and your wife’s names for my records?”

  Dutifully the man supplied the names, spelling the impossibly long surname without being asked. “Most people call me Dharma. Please come in.”

  Inside, the tiny gabled apartment smelled of spices. Green recognized the furniture as second-hand IKEA, but bright colours and knickknacks were everywhere and plastic toys littered the floor. Dharma shoved these aside hastily with his toe and gestured Green and Sharon to a small sofa covered with an ornate red throw. Even before they sat down, Dharma was offering them tea. Sharon moved to decline, but Green suspected that hospitality was important to the man. Dharma shouted their order, presumably to his wife in the back.

  “Thank you for taking the time,” Green began. “I’m making inquiries about people who visited Dr. Rosenthal in recent weeks.”

  “Oh well, I’m not here very often. My wife would be the one, but she’s usually very busy with the children.”

  “Perhaps we could ask her?”

  “She doesn’t speak English very well, and she’s very shy.”

  “You could translate.” Green waited until finally Dharma, looking flustered, went out to fetch his wife. A rapid-fire discussion ensued, and when Dharma reappeared, he had a pretty, dark-haired girl in tow who looked younger than Hannah. She was dressed in colourful flowing pants with a matching top, and she held a small baby in a sling around her waist. She struggled to balance the tea on a tray.

  Sharon reached out. “Would you like me to hold the baby?”

  The woman looked alarmed when her husband translated, but dutifully allowed Sharon to lift the baby from the sling. Sharon tickled the baby’s cheek and cooed. “What’s your name?”

  Green’s felt a twinge of uneasiness as he watched her cradle the baby, but the husband was beaming. “Her name is Jewel,” he said. The wife bent to serve the tea. It was a sweet, milky brew that set Green’s teeth on edge, but Sharon seemed in heaven. Only once everyone had been served did Green come back to the question at hand.

  “Did you ever see Dr. Rosenthal have any visitors in the last three months or so?”

  After an exchange with his wife, Dharma replied, “Sometimes two or three men. He was a very quiet man.”

  “What about young women?”

  Even before the translation, Dharma’s wife stiffened. She started to shake her head. “Please,” Green said. “No one is in trouble. But if you saw any young women...”

  Dharma and his wife had another lively exchange before Dharma turned to them apologetically. “My wife is embarrassed. Dr. Rosenthal was a kind man, and my wife does not want to bring shame.”

  “He helped people, especially young people. It’s important that we find them.”

  “I am very busy with the children,” his wife managed. Green took the photos out of his folder and laid them out one at a time on the coffee table.

  “Tell me if any of these women visited him.”

  They both leaned forward. Green watched the wife’s expression closely as he revealed each photo. She paused to dwell a little longer on the photo from the video, but ultimately she passed on.

  “They are not very good quality,” Dharma offered dubiously.

  “I know,” Green said. “And we won’t be going to court on your identification. But we do need to know who the woman is. She may have witnessed something.”

  “She could be in danger?” Dharma asked.

  Green gave a non-committal shrug, which seemed to be enough for Dharma, who embarked on another long discussion. Finally his wife learned forward to tap the photo of the mystery prostitute.

  “My wife isn’t sure, you understand, but she thinks she has seen this woman. Many times, coming and going from Dr. Rosenthal’s apartment.” He paused. “Often late at night, when she is feeding the baby.”

  “Did she see Dr. Rosenthal at these times?”

  “Yes. He comes out to put the woman in the cab.”

  Green perked up. “What cab company?”

  Another exchange. “She doesn’t remember.”

  “One last question. Did you see her last Saturday night? The night he died?”

  No, she had not, but she had gone to bed early and the baby had not wakened.

  As they said their goodbyes and picked their way down the steep, dark staircase, Green’s thoughts were already racing ahead, planning the next line of inquiry.

  Outside, the cold night air hit them after the stifling heat of the apartment. Sharon had been quiet, but now she broke in on his thoughts. “What’s your next move?”

  “Find her, obviously. She’s a crucial piece of the puzzle.”

  She unlocked the car and climbed in. “How will you find her?”

  “Usual ways. Ask around the street, contact the cab companies and our informants.” He glanced at his watch, which read ten thirty. “Drop me at the station, and I’ll get myself home. If I move fast enough, I can get this photo out into the patrol cars and onto the streets while the night time regulars are still out and about. Someone may know her.”

  “And if not?”

  “Well, if worst comes to worst, there’s always the media.”

  She frowned, drew a breath as if to speak, then shook her head. She remained silent as she navigated the stop-and-go Friday night traffic through the Elgin Street club district. He sensed she had more to say, but he had his own worries. Not the least of which was the riskiness of releasing the photo to the media.

  Until he knew what role she played, he might be putting another young woman at risk.

  Fifteen

  Green lay awake half the night, staring at the ceiling. He replayed the accident, the frantic aftermath, and every word of his last conversation with Sullivan. The shy, wistful face of Lindsay Corsin rose unbidden in his thoughts, along with the young patrol officer who might never return to full duty again. At three thirty in the morning, he slipped out of bed, tiptoed downstairs and poured himself a hefty shot of scotch. Half an hour later, he fell into a fitful sleep on the living room sofa.

  He awoke with a start at seven a.m. to the sound of his cellphone ringing. Sullivan! After a mad scramble, he located it under the jumble of his jacket and snatched it up. Not the hospital but Sergeant Levesque. In her outrage, her accent was more marked.

  “Detective Gibbs just call me this morning. He want to clarify the orders you left last night. I would appreciate this too. What orders? Sir.”

  “It was important to act quickly. I left you a voicemail message. I suggest you check it.”

  “Sir, with respect, I can’t run the case like this.”

  Oh, get off your high horse, Green wanted to snap, but instead he sidestepped. “What’s the news on Brian Sullivan?”

  “I don’t know yet. I just got Gibbs’s call—”

  “Meet me at the station in an hour,” he said. “By then we may have some responses to the bulletin, and I’ll fill you in.”

  “But this is my day off.”

  Green didn’t trust himself to respond civilly, so he said nothing. After a moment, she seemed to realize her mistake. “Very well, sir.”

  Green was showered, shaved, dressed and out the door in fifteen minutes, juggling a fresh travel mug of coffee. Ten minutes later, he was illegally parked in the loading zone and was dashing through the front door of the Heart Institute.

  Even at seven thirty on a Saturday morning, the cardiac care unit bustled with activity. Every moment held a potential life and death drama, so doctors swept through the cubicles on rounds with a full complement of students in tow. Nurses scurried on rubber-soled shoes, equipment trolleys rattled and everywhere was the incessant beep and hiss of machines. The waiting room, howev
er, was almost empty; the police officers had obviously ceased their vigil, and even Mary Sullivan was nowhere in sight.

  “She spent the night by his side,” explained the nurse who came to speak to him. “We finally persuaded her to go home to get some rest and pick up some things for him.”

  “How is he?”

  The nurse hesitated. “Are you family?”

  Green considered the question. Sullivan was his family. “Closer than most. I’m his boss and his oldest friend.”

  She brightened. “Oh, are you Inspector Green?”

  When he nodded, she put her hand on his arm. “He was asking about you.”

  Green’s joy set him floating. “He’s conscious?”

  “Just woke up. He said only five people were allowed to visit him—his wife, three kids, and you. Normally, we would only allow immediate family, but... I’m married to a fire fighter myself, and I know.”

  Green couldn’t trust his voice, so he bobbed his head several times. She smiled. “Do you want to see him? Only for five minutes, and don’t let him get agitated.”

  Sullivan was in a private cubicle barely large enough for his hospital bed, a guest chair and all the monitors and paraphernalia that sustained him. Green hated hospitals. Even after twenty years, the sounds and smells, the wan figures languishing in beds, all brought back memories of his mother’s long, futile fight with cancer, and of his own vigils at her bedside. He’d been helpless to ease her pain or to halt her inexorable drift towards death. Back then, as now, the streets teeming with life and danger had been his refuge.

  Sullivan lay slightly propped by pillows to ease the pressure on his heart. His eyes were closed, but he looked relaxed and pink with health. Green felt a rush of relief at the sight. The small bandage on Sullivan’s forehead and the slight redness on his nose and cheeks from the airbag were the only visible reminders of yesterday’s ordeal. Beside him, his heart monitor tracked a steady beat.