This Thing of Darkness

by Barbara Fradkin

  Green grasped his arm and began to haul him to his feet. “Show me where he was looking.”

  Grumbling, Screech stumbled upright and turned to the wall. “Need a piss.”

  The man stank of urine and sweat. “Later. Show me.”

  Green cajoled him across the street into the vacant parking lot still cluttered with the detritus of last night. Screech shuffled over the cracked asphalt, oblivious to the condoms, needles, and crumpled bits of foil. At a row of dumpsters by the back of the building, he stopped.

  “I ain’t getting up in them dumpsters.”

  Green dragged a chunk of broken cinderblock over and peered inside the first dumpster. It was almost empty, containing a rancid collection of plastic bags, take-out boxes and loose garbage. He did the same with all the dumpsters, to no effect. He made a mental note to check the pick-up schedule.

  “You’re telling me he went through all these?”

  “Yep. And further down the street too. He was some determined.” Screech’s eyes strayed to Green’s pocket. “Gave me another twenty before he took off.”

  Green laughed as he tucked two twenties into Screech’s shirt. “You watch you don’t spend that all in one place, eh?”

  Even before he’d returned to his car, Green was on the phone calling Gibbs. Surely the young man had managed to finish his interviews at Rideau Psychiatric. It was time to talk to Patrick O’Malley.

  Twenty-Three

  Bob Gibbs had needed less than ten minutes to locate a good photo of Patrick O’Malley on the web. A simple Google search of Ottawa and his name generated hundreds of images, many of him handing over cheques at fundraising galas, giving keynote addresses at corporate gatherings, and commanding the centre of boardroom portraits. Patrick O’Malley was a busy man. Besides being a prominent civil litigation lawyer, he was also on numerous charitable and social service boards such as The Children’s Aid Society and The Children’s Wish Foundation. He must have a soft spot for children, Gibbs reflected.

  From his thinning grey hair and deeply etched face, Gibbs guessed that he was close to sixty, although in his tailored suits, he was still a handsome figure. But the camera captured something in his eyes that unnerved Gibbs. A challenge, an icy control. Gibbs hoped he never had to meet him on the witness stand.

  He printed off a couple of friendlier photos and tucked them into a file, glancing at his watch as he prepared to leave the station. It was still too early to phone Sue Peters, who fatigued easily and needed at least ten hours’ rest at night. He would make the quick trip out to the hospital and perhaps drop by her place with coffee and muffins on his way back. If she was up to it, they could both spend some time at the station researching David Rosenthal. The overtime would come in useful for the big plans he had.

  Gibbs had only visited an inpatient ward at Rideau Psychiatric Hospital a handful of times in his career, and he was always taken aback by how different it was from a regular ward. Gone were the white coats and officious trappings of authority that separated patients from staff, gone were the ubiquitous IV poles, wheelchairs, and monitors crammed into the rooms and the carts and guerneys that cluttered the tile halls.

  Gone, most strikingly, was the smell of disinfectant, fear and disease. In its place was the friendly cheer of nurses, the chatter of TVs and the sense of shelter and calm. Gibbs knew that every one of the patients sitting in the lounge or walking the halls was desperately ill, but there was not a bandage or a walker to be seen.

  Sunday morning was a quiet time on the ward. Many patients were still in bed, and when Gibbs got off the elevator, two staff members were sitting in the nursing station working on charts. They seemed happy for the diversion and for the chance to shed some light on the mystery.

  Gibbs did not consider himself old—in fact, he battled the image of a baby-faced choirboy in the unit—but he felt old beside the pair who greeted him now. One sported a wedding ring but otherwise had the pink cheeks and ponytail of a high school cheerleader. The other one, with a name tag Zoë Wark, still had a mouthful of braces.

  “The nurse in charge is down the hall dealing with a patient,” said the cheerleader, whose name tag said Jessica Derkson. “She may be awhile.”

  “All I require is a simple ID,” Gibbs said, privately thinking that he might get more out of them without the senior nurse.

  “So it is Caitlin!” Zoe exclaimed. “I was so shocked when I saw the photo on the news last night. Makes you wonder if all her talk about blood and stuff was real!”

  Gibbs pounced on the opening. Green would have been proud. “What did she say? Anything that could help in the investigation?”

  “Oh, it was mostly word salad,”Jessica interjected. “Gibberish. Blood, Lucifer, radio waves orbiting the earth.”

  “She seemed really upset,” Zoe said. “And no wonder, if the poor thing witnessed that murder. She kept hugging herself and shaking her head. Almost like she was trying to wipe out the memory.”

  Jessica frowned. “I don’t think we should read anything into all that. She was extremely delusional. I was amazed when they let her go yesterday.”

  “She wasn’t ready?” Gibbs asked.

  “Absolutely not. She was just beginning to respond to her meds. She needed a stable, stress-free environment for quite some time yet.”

  “But we’re just nurses,” Zoe piped in, flashing Gibbs a smile full of wires.

  “She was signed out into the care of her father, right?” Gibbs asked. “She wasn’t just let free.”

  “Technically yes,” Zoe said. “But nothing stops her from walking out on her father the minute she gets home. She’s done it before.”

  “I don’t think he’ll let her,” Jessica said. “He seemed pretty determined yesterday.”

  Gibbs thought of the steely-eyed stare in Patrick O’Malley’s photos. He doubted anyone crossed the man without a serious fight. “Just for the record, can you describe the man who signed her out?”

  Jessica rattled off a clear, concise description that fit O’Malley perfectly, right down to the pale grey eyes. Gibbs showed them the photo, and both confirmed his identity without a second’s doubt.

  “Those eyes unnerved me,” Zoe said.

  “But you could tell he cared about her,” Jessica countered. “He visited her every day, met with staff, brought her some nice comfy clothes from home. She’d arrived with nothing but—” Jessica broke off.

  “Skank clothes,” Zoe supplied. Jessica frowned. “Well, what else would you call six-inch heels and jeans so tight they—”

  “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” Jessica said. “She’s a patient.”

  Zoe flushed and looked about to crawl into a hole. Gibbs hunted about for a way to keep them talking. At least he hadn’t taken a note. Hadn’t even taken out his notebook, another technique Inspector Green had taught him. “So you feel confident that her father will take good care of her in her own home?”

  “Oh, yes, he assured the doctor of that,” Jessica said. “I overheard his conversation with her treating psychiatrist. Old friends, it sounded like. He told the father to pick up the phone and call him directly if he needed to.”

  “We never met the mother, though,” Zoe added. “She never once came to visit, so I don’t know how supportive—”

  Jessica cut her off. “I’m sure everything will be fine. But if you want to talk to Caitlin...” she drew herself up and seemed to recover the full force of her professionalism, “would you wait a few days? She’s very fragile. Even in the most loving, supportive home environment, she may find the trauma of that evening too stressful to relive.”

  Gibbs was feeling very pleased with himself as he thanked the nurses and ducked back into the elevator without so much as a glimpse of the nurse in charge. He knew he had pried more personal information out of them than they ever should have revealed. He went back to his car. Time to report his news to Inspector Green, and then... On to Sue Peters.

  His phone rang before he could dial out. To
his dismay, it was Sergeant Levesque, sounding fuzzy, as if she’d just woken up. “Anything important on the search for Caitlin O’Malley so far, Bob?”

  Gibbs hesitated. He hated squad room politics, because somehow they always managed to bite him in the ass. While he searched for a safe answer, she added, “I see that Inspector Green ordered surveillance on her father’s house last night.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and he asked me to follow up with—”

  “I know, the nurses at the hospital. What did you find?”

  Gibbs relaxed fractionally. At least Inspector Green had kept her informed, rather than doing his usual end run. He summarized his interview with the nurses.

  “So our witness is probably safe and sound at her parents’ home.” She paused. “Did Inspector Green ask you to do anything else this morning?”

  “Background on David Rosenthal. I was going to ask Detective Peters to help. Is that all right with you, ma’am?”

  “That’s fine. Go ahead with that, and leave this hospital information with me. I’ll pass it on to Inspector Green when I speak with him.”

  Her voice cut like a whip now, like she’d woken up in a hurry. Gibbs was more than happy to step out of the line of fire between her and Green. After a totally unnecessary apology, for which he privately cursed himself, he hung up and set off for Sue Peters’ apartment. Breakfast with Sue followed by a leisurely drive back to the station and a morning spent in companionable silence tracking David Rosenthal through cyberspace. That was the police work he loved.

  He and Sue had just arrived in the squad room an hour later, however, when his phone buzzed. It was Collins, the detective sergeant on duty. “Got a man. Down in the lobby. To see you.” He spoke like a train jolting along a rusty track. “Cabbie, called in earlier about your mystery ID. Sounded important. Told him to come on in.”

  “Did you notify Sergeant Levesque?”

  “No. Knew you were on.”

  More squad room politics. Gibbs glanced at Sue and hauled himself tall. Before getting all worked up about who should know what, maybe he should hear what the cabbie’s important news was.

  Hamid Farahani’s dark eyes danced with curiosity as Gibbs ushered him into the squad room. He reminded Gibbs of a spider monkey he’d seen once on the Nature Channel, all scrawny limbs and tufts of black hair. He talked so fast that Gibbs struggled to understand his guttural Middle Eastern accent. Slowly he learned that Farahani drove a taxi for Blueline, but only at night, to supplement his income while he tried to expand his small shwarma take-out shop into a viable restaurant. In this economy, probably not the best idea, but... Farahani raised his spider arms expressively.

  Gibbs finally saw an opening. “You phoned the police because you recognized the woman in the photo?”

  Farahani’s head bobbed. “I want to do my civic duty.” A pause. “But I’m wondering, is there some money for this?”

  “If your story checks out, I’ll have to ask—”

  The man held up his hand. “I do my duty anyway. I only ask because, well, I am trying to start my business, and on CSI....”

  “I understand, sir. Why don’t you start by telling me how you recognize this woman.” He laid the photo line-up Sullivan had prepared on his desk. Because the pawn shop photo had been splashed all over the news, he had removed it and substituted Caitlin’s graduation photo. “Just to confirm, point out the woman you picked up.”

  Farahani looked at all the photos, a deep furrow working its way into his brow. “She is not here. That photo is not here.”

  “But do you recognize the woman in any of these photos?”

  The long spidery fingers hovered over the photos, pausing a long time over the graduation photo before picking it up. “This one, possibly. She looked very different that night in my cab.”

  Gibbs made some notes and packed away the photos. “When did you see her, and where?”

  “Last Saturday night, the night that man was killed. I’m sorry, I didn’t see a connection before, because I picked her up in Vanier, more than a kilometre away. I thought she was a working girl. She dressed like a hooker, so I thought she was working Montreal Road. The girls along that strip, they are everywhere. Used to be even worse. All the side streets, all the alleys. You can’t believe what I was seeing. Friday and Saturday nights, men call me all the way from Kanata and Nepean. Where are they going to find girls on the streets out there? It’s all behind fancy glass doors, booked by cellphone. But down here in the city, if you don’t want a trail...”

  Farahani looked pleased with himself, like he was acting as guide to a dangerous but titillating world. Gibbs could sense Sue Peters grinning. Time to bring the man back to earth. “Did this woman phone for a cab?”

  “No, no, I see her. She is walking along Montreal Road, holding herself like this.” He jumped up and gripped his stomach as he hobbled across the room. “Like she was hurt. It is dangerous that time in the night.”

  “What time was this?”

  “3:20 a.m., sir. I check my log today.”

  “And what direction was she walking?”

  “East, to St. Laurent Boulevard.”

  And ultimately towards Rothwell Heights, Gibbs thought, although it would be a really long walk. “What did you do?”

  “I stop. First I slow down. I was worried. A young woman alone on the street at that hour and dressed in nothing, only a black bra and jeans. I asked her where is she going, and she said she is walking home. I offered her a lift.” Farahani paused. He looked nervous. “I have two daughters, younger, but I hope if ever they are in trouble...”

  “And she accepted the lift?”

  “When she got in the back, I see she is very upset, making no sense, and her jeans are...” He makes a gesture towards his crotch. “I see some blood there. I asked what happened, but she only shakes her head. I want to take her to hospital, but she says no, just take me home.”

  “What address did she give you?”

  Farahani looked at his notes. “1714 Montreal Road. Near Blair Road in Beacon Hill. Much too far walking.” He waved his hands to signal distance. “She has no money, but I say it doesn’t matter. I get her home safe.”

  Gibbs recorded the address then carefully closed his notebook. All the time he was thanking the man and escorting him back downstairs, he was thinking ahead. Caitlin had been captured on video on Rideau Street an hour earlier, at 2:10 a.m. What had happened during that hour, and why had the woman walked over a kilometre from the site of the murder? Had she been sexually assaulted, and even if she had, what did it have to do with the murder of Sam Rosenthal?

  The minute he was back in the squad room, he picked up the telephone. Inspector Green needed to know this.

  Green propped his notebook against his steering wheel and jotted notes as Gibbs reported his interview with the cabbie. He frowned as he wrote down the address. “That’s not Patrick O’Malley’s address.”

  “No, sir. It’s a townhouse unit in a large, low-rent complex. Sue Peters is looking it up now to see who owns it. But I think it’s a red herring, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s just across the street from the back of the neighbourhood where her father lives. I think she didn’t want the cabbie to know where she lived, so she had him drop her on a main street nearby. Maybe she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by pulling up outside her father’s place in a cab at three thirty in the morning either.”

  Green pictured the quiet street, at that hour almost certainly asleep. Nonetheless, there might be some nosy insomniac peeking out the curtains to see what shenanigans the O’Malley family was up to at that hour. Given Caitlin’s erratic history and her mother’s drinking, he imagined the gossip had been fairly fierce over the years.

  “What about the nurses, Bob? Did you get the father’s photo over to the hospital?”

  There was a pause. “Oh, yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I—I reported in to Sergeant Levesque. She s-said she would tell you.”

  G
reen squinted through the windshield as he wrestled his temper under control. This was not Gibbs’ battle.

  “I’m sure she’ll call,” Gibbs rushed on to fill the silence. “She was at home, sounded like she just woke up. Or something.”

  Despite his annoyance, Green had to smile. He could almost hear the young detective’s embarrassment through the phone line. From the sound of it, Levesque had managed a successful dinner date after all.

  His annoyance dissipated entirely as Gibbs’ described his visit to the hospital. With his gentle manner, the kid was developing quite a talent for drawing people out. But in the midst of all the concern about Caitlin’s fragile mental health, no one had asked the very crucial question—why now? Why had Patrick O’Malley suddenly shown up at the hospital that afternoon and insisted on taking his daughter home? Insisted to the point of interrupting her psychiatrist in the middle of his weekend off. What had sent him into a panic? The photo of his daughter released to the media that afternoon?

  “The nurses were pretty surprised she’d been discharged,” Gibbs was saying. “She’s still very ill, they said, and they asked if we could hold off interviewing her for awhile.”

  Green peered at his watch. It was edging towards midday. Sharon was going to sue for divorce, if she didn’t murder him outright. He’d promised to take Tony and his new kindergarten buddy bicycling on their brand new two-wheelers today. And to tackle the yard. There were two massive maples and an oak in the backyard, and if he ignored nature much longer, the house might totally disappear under their leaves.

  “Not possible. But it’s Patrick O’Malley I really want to talk to right now. As soon as Sergeant Levesque shows up at the station, have her give me a call.”

  Twenty-Four

  Green leaned on his rake and stared at the back yard with dismay. After an hour, six bags brimming with leaves were already lined up at the curb, but the yard looked untouched. The task was not helped, of course, by the enthusiastic contribution of Tony, his friend, and Modo, who were making a game of jumping in the leaf pile. It was amazing what havoc two little boys and one huge dog could create.