The Canary List: A Novel

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “Right. We don’t know for sure who paid your retainer, but I don’t think there is any mystery in why. Our firm has been representing the Los Angeles archdiocese in child abuse cases over the last decade.”

  “As in,” Crockett said slowly, “priests and children.”

  “As in eventual confessed guilt and eventual confessed cover-up.”

  “What could the Los Angeles archdiocese possibly have to do with me? I am as far as I could be from one of their … followers.”

  “Listen carefully. Our firm is known as expert in defending the indefensible. Which means I have also become an expert in separating the professional from the personal. But at a price. I’m not sure how much longer I can adore myself with full satisfaction when I’m making life easy on abusive priests.” Her face had lost animation. “So the personal me is cheering for you. It would be great to defend someone who really isn’t a pedophile.”

  “It’s difficult not to once again try to reassure you of my innocence. You might think I protest too much.”

  “Inhuman if you didn’t. It’s a horrible accusation for an innocent man. But I don’t need it. So keep your dignity.” Some of her animation returned. “Anyway, if it wasn’t an odd enough coincidence that the anonymous client hired our firm through another lawyer to represent you, this is where it gets deeper. As defending attorneys,” she said, then continued after a swig of her ice tea, “we—as in the firm—are able to review all the evidence that will be used against you. We were given a copy of the hard drive they found in your attic. Today we learned that a couple dozen images on your hard drive are identical matches to images on the hard drives of some of our other clients at the archdiocese.”

  Stunned, Crockett had difficulty coming up with an intelligent comment, but tried. “So that could help you prove that I am innocent. That the hard drive was planted.”

  “That is my full intention. I’ve got a great connection in the hacker world. You ever want someone who can get past the firewall of a computer in the White House, he’s your guy. I’m using him to get some digital analysis done that might help.”

  “That sounds great,” Crockett couldn’t help but feel hopeful, even with the deeply disturbing reminder that some Los Angeles priests had harbored child pornography. There were some things a person could read in the newspaper a hundred times yet never be unaffected by them, and never, then, truly comprehend the situation.

  She gave a tentative nod. “It wasn’t an accident we found the matching images. It was a tip. Sent to me via anonymous e-mail. Someone knew about images on two separate hard drives.”

  “That alone should show I’m innocent.”

  “Unless,” she said, “you sent the e-mail to make it look that way.”

  “That seems like a serious stretch in logic,” Crockett said, feeling a surge of desperation. “Look, something is obviously going on,” he urged. Then he remembered his conversation with Brad Romans about the priest. “Do you know about the exorcist?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened.

  “Yeah, exorcist.” Crockett passed on what he’d learned from Romans about the psychiatrist treating Jaimie.

  Sarah had stopped eating entirely as Crockett explained Jaimie’s file.

  “Interesting,” she said when he finished. “The question is, How is the exorcist connected to you? It might further suggest that something is going on here that you got dragged into. And that leads to the next question, What’s the conspiracy, and why?”

  “I got nothing,” Crockett said. “But it has to be about Jaimie. There’s a fire, she stays at Nanna’s but the next morning Nanna is gone, and someone tries to take Jaimie away by posing as a Social Services person. Then I’m framed into looking like I’ve hurt Jaimie. As to who did any of this and why, I can’t even begin to guess. I’ve been wondering, wouldn’t Jaimie have the answers? If I could just talk with her … she trusts me.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know if you should go down that road. You need to keep some distance from her. Correction, a lot of distance. That’s good legal advice. Take it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I have to stay away from the psychiatrist, right?”

  “You could try her, but I doubt it will get you anywhere. You think lawyers have client confidentiality? Pediatric psych care is a whole other ball game.” She stood, a clear indication the meeting was over.

  “One more thing,” Crockett said, not getting up. “Seeing as you have this huge retainer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Won’t it help our defense if we can get Nanna’s testimony?”

  “Obviously.”

  “I don’t think the police are working that hard to find her. Can you hire someone to start? I don’t know where to begin.”

  Twenty-Three

  athan Wilby’s day job was managing a trailer park in Whittier. He was smart enough to work somewhere better, but his prison record made that difficult. Not that he minded. The trailer park milieu was something he well understood. It took him out of the mainstream, where nobody judged him, and his needs were simple. His own accommodation there, which definitely did not live up to any city codes, was a truck camper. While the truck and camper were parked permanently on a patch of gravel in the remotest corner of the lot, every Sunday at 10:00 a.m., he checked the truck’s oil, started the engine, let it run for a few minutes, shut it off, and checked the oil again. After that, the transmission fluid, then the tire pressures, including the spare. It gave him comfort knowing that at any moment he could drive away, taking all his earthly possessions.

  Nathan’s truck camper had an invisible buffer zone that kids and drunks in the trailer park had long ago learned to respect. This buffer zone matched exactly the geographical area that spanned the reach of the long chains attached to two savage mongrels who roamed the extent of their territory, leaving behind a mess that alone would have been enough to deter intruders.

  Inside, the camper was an incredible contrast of neatness, as if the owner was OCD, which Nathan was. The old linoleum gleamed, the ancient countertops were uncracked, and every dish and item of cutlery was put in place to the point where Nathan could have cooked in the dark with confidence.

  And cooking was something he revered. In the tiny galley of his camper, he’d consult cookbooks of all ethnic types, bickering with Abez as he measured and mixed ingredients, with Abez pretending no interest. Abez was jealous of anything that took Nathan’s attention from him. Including the friendly old woman who sat at Nathan’s small table. She thanked him for the meal he set in front of her: goat cheese, arugula, and roasted red pepper sandwiches on fresh-baked whole-grain ciabatta rolls.

  “You look like the type,” Nathan told the old woman, “so I would advise against saying grace. Abez won’t like it.”

  She glanced at the door. “I’m glad he’s not any closer.”

  “You can see him?”

  “Who else could you have been talking to while you made dinner?”

  This put the old woman in an entirely new light for Nathan.

  “Why won’t Abez like it if I say grace?” she asked.

  “Any mention of the J word makes Abez howl.”

  “The J word?”

  “The guy who died on the cross.” Abez even hated hearing it spelled out: J-E-S-U-S.

  “Oh,” she said. “I certainly don’t want to upset him.”

  That didn’t do much to appease Abez. He whispered to Nathan that he wanted the old woman dead.

  “Why should I have to kill her?” Nathan asked Abez. “She can’t go anywhere. It’s safe to keep her here.”

  Abez wouldn’t be able to argue otherwise. Dog chains on her ankles and wrists made her clank as she nibbled at the sandwiches, and Nathan put a gag on her when he had to leave her alone in the trailer.

  The old woman chewed a healthy bite from her sandwich. “You’re like me, you know,” she said pleasantly. “I have a friend I can talk to all the time too.”

  Abez tried to interrupt, but Nath
an shook a finger at him to silence him.

  “I wouldn’t call Abez a friend,” Nathan said to the old woman. “More like someone I haven’t been able to get rid of for so long that I finally gave up. I talked to a priest about it. He said that I was lucky. Not many people are given the power to have a demon as a companion, especially one high up like Abez. Well, Abezethibou.”

  “I think I’ve heard of him,” she said.

  “Yeah?” Nathan was starting to like this woman. “Abez is the one who convinced the pharaoh to change his mind and chase the Israelite slaves. You know, with Moses. Abezethibou helped the two magicians who had those contests with Moses and Aaron, like turning sticks into snakes.”

  Nathan shook his finger again at Abez, who was hopping from one foot to another, a sure sign of growing anger. “I told you, hang on.”

  “Abezethibou,” she repeated.

  “You can see he’s only got one wing, looks like a giant bat wing, but red instead of black. I think that’s what makes him so cranky.”

  “Maybe not,” the old woman said. “I’m pretty sure that to be a good demon, you can’t be caught in a good mood.”

  Nathan guessed that sooner or later he’d have to kill the old woman. Abez was too much of a secret to share with anyone who might ever leave the camper. But she was so interesting to talk to that he didn’t want to kill her yet.

  “Abez has been with me since I was a kid,” Nathan continued. “Showed up when my dad ran out. My mom, she had a friend. And this friend would do things to me—let’s just say it wouldn’t be proper to discuss the details with you—and I would cry all night because I was so weak. Then Abez showed up and asked if I would like to be strong. Abez helped me get rid of my mom’s friend. It must have been Abez, because I don’t remember getting that knife. I do remember the pillow and what he asked me to do to my mom. But then I had to go to jail. They couldn’t keep Abez out of jail though. So I guess he’s a true friend.”

  “It’s very nice to have a true friend,” the woman said. “I’m glad we’re getting to know each other. I hope he’ll be okay if you and I are friends too. And thank you so much for this delicious meal.”

  Abezethibou was screaming for Nathan to cut the old woman’s throat, but for the first time in a long time, Nathan wasn’t in a hurry to do as commanded.

  He’d let the woman live. At least until he found the girl. Even after all the instructions and help The Prince had given him over the telephone, Nathan had not been able to get her yet. But Nathan wouldn’t give up. He would have to leave the old woman in the camper while he went back out looking for the girl. He’d make the old woman lie on the bed and then tape her arms and legs together and put something across her mouth so she couldn’t make noise. She was a sweet old woman. He would be gentle, and she would understand that Nathan had to tape her so that she wouldn’t escape.

  “Scream all you want,” Nathan told Abez. “I’ll take care of her when I’m ready, not when you tell me to do it.”

  In the morning, he was going to make rhubarb and strawberry breakfast crostini. There was something about soft cheeses he loved, and he’d spread ricotta over the toast before spooning on the warm, soft preserves just out of the camper’s propane-powered oven. The old woman would probably enjoy it too. Looked like her teeth were real, so she wouldn’t have a problem with toast.

  “What’s he telling you now?” the old woman asked, glancing at the door.

  “He wants you dead. But I don’t. I like you. So we’ll fight about it for a while. I’m sorry this place is so small. You’ll be hearing us argue all night, I suppose.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him?” she asked. Her smile had gained intensity.

  “Good luck,” Nathan replied. “He only listens to Beelzebub. Or to the priest I was telling you about. His name is The Prince. What’s your name again?”

  “My name is Nanna.”

  “Nanna. Hey, Nanna, do you like ricotta cheese?”

  Twenty-Four

  r. Grey, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for us to discuss anything to do with Jaimie,” Dr. Mackenzie said, as she ushered Crockett into her office. In contrast to Brad Romans’s space, her walls were filled with framed photos. Mainly of kids with California hills in the background. Probably the Bright Lights Center Crockett had heard about.

  “Call me Crockett,” he said. He wished he’d stopped at a service station and bought a throwaway toothbrush and spent a minute at a sink.

  “Mr. Grey,” she said. “I’m very aware that you are Jaimie’s teacher and of the charges against you, so I expect us to have a very short and very professional conversation.”

  Dr. Mackenzie was about Crockett’s age. She had blond hair and an unlined face that might have been attractive save for her pinched expression, as if she were parked on a cactus. She wore her dowager clothes like armor, with arms crossed and stance slightly wide. Crockett doubted Dr. Mackenzie cared whether anyone found her attractive.

  “And I’m very aware that Jaimie has been temporarily placed in your professional care because her foster mother and the police believe she started the fire,” he said. “I may be one of the few people who isn’t prepared to believe that. I think she’s in danger, and I want to help her.”

  “Given the accusations against you, I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be involved in any manner,” she said. “Frankly, I was hesitant to even meet with you.”

  “Someone is trying to get to her,” Crockett said. “I don’t know why, but what happened to me is because I got in the way.”

  “Do you have any proof of this?” she asked.

  “Someone posed as a Social Services worker to try to take her the morning after the fire.” Crockett’s gut was tight. He felt defensive and it angered him.

  “This, of course, is a police matter.”

  “They don’t believe me.” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

  “Because you don’t have proof.”

  “I’m here because I’m looking for something to help me get that proof,” Crockett said. “Helping me will help Jaimie.”

  “I don’t like you trying to push me around. And it won’t work. You should first understand one simple foundation. Everything I do is based on helping each child in my care. I’m not influenced by politics or power games or the position or lack of position of parents or other adults I come into contact each day as I work with the children.”

  “Laudable,” Crockett said. He instantly regretted showing his irritation and instantly paid the price for it, as the woman became even icier.

  “Obviously you’re missing my point. I don’t care if it’s laudable. Nor do I care if you think it’s laudable. Or if you don’t think it’s laudable.”

  “I’m sorry,” Crockett said. “You didn’t deserve to get some of the stress backlash here. I’m hoping you might be able to tell me something that will help me figure out what’s going on.”

  “That would entail divulging confidential discussions I’ve had with a troubled child. I don’t think so, Mr. Grey.”

  “I’m facing total professional and personal ruin because I tried to help Jaimie when she needed it.”

  “No,” Mackenzie countered. “You’re facing total professional and personal ruin because there was a hard drive filled with child porn in your attic.”

  Why was this woman being such a pit bull?

  “I don’t think Jaimie started the fire,” Crockett said. “I think it’s convenient for someone to have her take the blame. Just like it’s convenient for someone if I take the blame for a hard drive that isn’t mine. Can’t you consider working with me on this?”

  She put up an open hand to block him into silence. She held it there, looking past him. A long moment later, she dropped her hand, looked at him and spoke.

  “I’ve considered it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I’ve concluded that no, working with you is not another way to help her. She’s better off in the sanctuary of Bright Lights.” />
  Pretty clear that no amount of velvet would work here.

  “Why’d you take her to an exorcist?” he asked.

  “She told you that?” Mackenzie asked.

  “That would entail divulging confidential discussions I’ve had with a troubled child. I don’t think so, Dr. Mackenzie. Why’d you take her to an exorcist? In your professional opinion, is she demon possessed? Is that what you want to get out to the media?”

  “That’s your way of offering to help? Exposing the child to lurid speculation?”

  Crockett sighed. “No. I can’t even run that bluff past you.”

  She softened slightly. “My sense is that you are an innocent man. You have my sympathy.”

  “Nothing else? At least explain the exorcist to me. I notice you didn’t deny it. Does that have anything at all to do with any of this?”

  “This conversation has gone beyond short.”

  “Give me something. Help me. Help me help her.”

  “If you’re innocent,” she said, “I’m sure the world will find out sooner than later. I’d hold on to that instead of trying to involve yourself with Jaimie.”

  Was she trying to tell him something?

  Crockett stood. If she was, it was obvious he wasn’t going to learn more from her right now. He needed more leverage.

  “Just so you know,” he said. “I’m going to do what it takes to clear myself. I’m going to dig and dig and dig until I find out what’s been happening.”

  “I wish you the best.”

  Twenty-Five

  ifteen minutes later, Crockett was on the 405, coming up the hills from the San Fernando Valley. He was fighting just enough traffic to make him vow, once again, to sell his five-speed and get an automatic. Despite six lanes, vehicle movement was clotted. The slowdowns would occasionally bring him to a complete stop, followed by acceleration to forty or fifty miles an hour, this randomness nothing more than the chain reaction from a collective urge to go as fast as possible.

  What happened in this case, Crockett believed, was the bumper-to-bumper mentality. Some guy—just to vilify him properly, Crockett imagined a toupee-wearing used-car salesman in his fifties driving a black Hummer in a hurry to get to a gentleman’s club—fills the rearview mirror of someone in front of him and then has to tap on the brakes, which makes the person behind him do the same. And so on and so on and so on. A long chain of braking that forces the gaps in the road to shrink to nothing. Eventually, according to Crockett’s mental picture, the Hummer guy gets room again, gooses it, almost nudges the bumper in front again, and all the gaps of the chain widen. Until car-sales guy taps the brakes again and restarts the cycle. If, somehow, everyone would simply stay the recommended five car lengths apart, traffic flow would be even. And Crockett wouldn’t be stuck in his Jeep, constantly gearing down, then up, then down, then up.