She glanced up belatedly as Green reached his office door, then gathered up some print-outs and came to join him. “I booked the video interrogation room for Mr. O’Malley at one o’clock, sir. His lawyer, Elliot Solquist, will be joining us. I thought you’d like to know the latest forensics before that.”
He sat behind his desk and scowled at the blinking voicemail light on his phone. No doubt there was a similar pile-up of messages in his email inbox as well. He gestured Levesque to a chair. “The executive summary, Marie Claire.”
She smiled. “At the Rothwell Drive scene, they found the weapon used to kill the mother. An eight-inch pair of fabric shears. It was placed in the cosmetics drawer in the daughter’s en suite bathroom, still covered in blood and smeared with fingerprints. Lou Paquette identified a useable one as Caitlin’s.”
“None from Patrick?”
She shook her head, pouting slightly as if disappointed.
“What about other prints? There were bloody handprints and footprints all over that scene.”
“Still being processed. Lou says he’ll be busy all month. They did find some traces of blood washed down the sink in Caitlin’s bathroom.”
Green thought back. “That also supports the father’s version of events.”
“But—!” Quickly she flipped to another report. “At the Montreal Road bungalow, Lyle Cunningham found some interesting prints on the prescription bottle and the water glass. The ones on the bottle were overlapping and partial, so he could only get enough points for a conclusive match on one. Caitlin’s. But he said some of the partials might have been Patrick’s.”
Green waved his hand in dismissal. “Patrick might have handled his wife’s sleeping pills any time. It means nothing that his prints are on it. What about the glass?”
“A couple of partial prints match Caitlin’s, but—” she smiled, the pout vanishing in her triumph, “the clearest, most complete print belongs to Patrick. His right thumb.”
It wasn’t much to go on, Green reflected once Levesque left the office. The crumpled phone message, the fingerprints on the fabric shears, the blood in Caitlin’s sink...everything was consistent with Patrick’s story. Most of the puzzle pieces fit. Even Patrick’s prints on the glass could be explained away.
Yet Green was left with a restless sense of unease.
He pulled out the sheaf of notes that David Rosenthal had found in his father’s apartment and smoothed them out on the desk. He bent close and slowly picked apart the doctor’s scratchy handwriting, still elegant but spidery with age The first page was a list of nine names and accompanying notations. Six of the names Green recognized as beneficiaries of his will, including Caitlin’s. Two other names were crossed out with the words “doing well” beside them. The final name was “David”, followed by three question marks and the word “maybe”. Caitlin’s name also had a question mark beside it and the word ‘father?’
There was no date or useful explanation on the page. If this list represented Sam Rosenthal’s original deliberations about his new will, he’d later made up his mind to exclude his son and to award Caitlin the money.
The second page contained two very brief progress notes, under the heading “C. O.”
Sept. 13. Patient arrived 10 p.m. Appeared anxious and fearful, denied concerns but not very talkative about herself. She asked about the High Holy Days, and what Jews did to celebrate the new year. I explained it was not a celebration but a time of reflection and atonement. For evil, she said, then talked on about bad state of world, some talk of Lucifer but denies hearing any commands from God to destroy him. Refused increase olazapine. Major concern, I tried to put some in tea but she didn’t drink it. I sense increasing suspicion. I hope the mother didn’t tell her about my call to her father.
Sept. 20, 1:30 a.m. Patient failed to appear for her session this evening. Even allowing for her rather loose appreciation of time, this is abnormally late, and she knows I will worry. My optimism that she would respond to my treatment approach appears to be misplaced, and her erratic and deteriorating behaviour has left me concerned for her safety and her future. With each relapse, the hopes for recovery diminish.
Her father has not yet returned my phone call. I know he cares about her in his heavy-handed, take-charge fashion. Hence I fear he may be starting to lose hope himself. For a parent, that moment when hope is relinquished, is the most devastating loss of all. I will make one last effort to find her tonight and if that fails, I will call him again tomorrow.
Green reread the last note several times. “That moment when hope is relinquished is the most devastating loss of all”.. His thoughts returned to Patrick’s version of the events that had unfolded that tragic Sunday afternoon. Patrick had argued his daughter’s side against his wife, who wanted to turn her in to the police, then he’d gone down to make lunch. He’d heard an argument from upstairs, but that was commonplace so he thought nothing of it. He returned back upstairs to find his wife murdered in her bedroom, and Caitlin in her bathroom washing her hands after presumably stashing the murder weapon in her bathroom drawer. Patrick had chosen not to call 911, but instead to bind his daughter’s hands and bring her to the Montreal Road house. To her refuge, her one true home.
They had talked about her past and her future, her life at a crossroads. She had reached a decision. Perhaps he had even poured the water, held the glass, emptied the pills...
The vague sense of unease clicked into focus. With Caitlin’s hands bound, only one person could have brought the bottle of sleeping pills from her mother’s bedside. Only one person could have brought the supply of water needed to wash them down.
Patrick had known, even before his talk with his daughter, what the outcome would be. He had brought her to that house with all the supplies needed for her suicide. He had intended her to die. Had he let her explore her own way, or had he nudged her along the path to her decision? Had he told her it was her only hope for an end to the torment, her ultimate act of atonement?
Even worse, had he deceived her with assurances of a long, much-needed sleep? Or with threats and intimidation, forced the pills down her throat?
Green’s heart pounded. In the privacy of that little bungalow, a tragedy had unfolded. A young woman had reached an impasse, and a father had been forced to make a horrific choice on her behalf. Perhaps she had begged him to end it, perhaps he had made the choice for her. It was impossible to know. More importantly, from a police perspective, impossible to prove. Patrick already faced the possibility of charges as an accessory to murder. At the very least, he would lose his reputation, his good standing at the Bar, and most certainly his social standing, all of which paled next to the losses he had already sustained. Would it serve the cause of justice—for Sam Rosenthal, for Lindsay Corsin or for Annabeth—to bring that horrific choice out of the privacy of that room into the harsh light of law?
Leaving the pages on the desk, Green switched off his office light and headed out to the interrogation room. It was almost one o’clock. Patrick O’Malley was waiting to retell his story. And to explain, not his desperation or loss of hope, but merely a few questionable fingerprints on the accoutrements of his daughter’s suicide.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am grateful to the numerous people who generously offered their time and expertise in the creation of this story. As always, a big thank you to my critiquing group of great friends and fellow writers, Joan Boswell, Vicki Cameron, Mary Jane Maffini, Sue Pike and Linda Wiken, who helped to ferret out flaws and polish the prose. To my publisher Sylvia McConnell, editor Allister Thompson, and graphic designer Emma Dolan for their continued support and belief in me. A very special thanks to Mark Cartwright of the Ottawa Police Service, who has provided ongoing professional advice throughout Inspector Green’s long career and whose humour and insight have helped to make him who he is. Any errors in police procedure, whether accidental or deliberate, are mine entirely.
Above all, I am grateful to my children and my family, for a
ll that they mean to me.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual people and events is unintentional. Although most of the Ottawa locales are real, some have been invented or altered in the interests of the story.
photo by Laura Thompson, 2009
Barbara Fradkin was born in Montreal and obtained her PhD in psychology. Her work as a child psychologist has provided ample inspiration and insight for plotting murders.
Her novels featuring Ottawa Police Inspector Michael Green are Do or Die (2000), Once Upon a Time (2002), Mist Walker (2003), Fifth Son (2004), Honour Among Men (2006), Dream Chasers (2007) and now This Thing of Darkness. Fifth Son won Best Novel at the 2005 Arthur Ellis Awards, and Honour Among Men repeated the honour in 2007.
Fradkin lives in Ottawa, Ontario. More information on her work is online at www. barbarafradkin. com
The Inspector Green Series:
Do or Die
Once Upon a Time
Mist Walker
Fifth Son
Honour Among Men
Dream Chasers
This Thing of Darkness
This Thing of Darkness Page 31
