Pull out the needle, drop it to the floor and press where the little spot of blood has formed.
In a moment it’s coming. Release, comfort, bliss. If I can get clean for Ellie and for Sam I will never experience it again. How will I live without…
Oh… Oooh… Oooooooh.
The world slows as a warm and gentle wave suffuses me and washes the pain out of every cell and every care out of my soul. Ooooooooh, God, that’s good. I look up for a second and smile as my head nods forward.
Just floating…
8
Cal
The yellow and black handle protruding from his chest is all I can think about; the fishing knife which I bought for him was the instrument of his death. But wielded by whom? Who would ever think of murdering Kevin?
The note under the couch—'Mom & Dad I’—was a clumsy attempt to make it look like suicide. I do not even know for sure if it was Kev’s handwriting.
The ring on the floor was an engagement ring. Was Kevin planning to propose to Sandi or had he already done so and she turned him down? Or did they have an argument and she threw it back at him? I wonder if she was there in the morning when I got there; she usually was on Saturday mornings. But in the afternoon, when I ran upstairs to the bedroom, there was an indentation of a head on only one of the pillows.
If I were running the investigation, I would start with Sandi and then talk to the neighbours, especially Mrs. Komalski who is right next door to him; she misses nothing. If I were running the investigation… The thought gives me a physical pain. Kevin’s death has triggered my longing to be back in the department, a longing that I have suppressed for years.
But what if I did investigate his death? What if I could find the killer? And get clean? Would that give me a shot at getting back into the VPD? All my logic tells me they would never rehire a former addict but dreams are not always beaten down by logic.
My thoughts are interrupted by a double knock on the door that has to be Roy. He doesn’t ever live in flop houses. He says they make him feel caged. He lives out in the open air, under bridges, in doorways or under trees, and he prefers it that way. I have observed how twitchy he can get indoors. I’m surprised he’s here at all. It must be important.
I cannot help feeling a bit guilty about the uncharitable thoughts I had for him earlier and about the brusque way I treated him outside the Sunrise market. I’m glad he’s here, maybe he can tell me more about Tommy’s death too.
I put a welcoming smile on my face as I unlock the door and open it wide.
The guy dressed in black from the alley steps into the room. His fist is headed towards my face and he’s as big as me. But slow. I slam him with the door and push him off balance. His ham-sized fist sails past my ear as I grab his arm and spin him hard into the room. His head adds another insult to the poor, abused wall opposite the door and in that instant, while he is still dazed, I grab his lapels and drive my forehead hard into his nose. It gives out a satisfying crunch.
Before I can complete the ballet by bringing my knee up into his groin, I hear, or maybe just sense, that he is not alone. Springing to my left, I spin back to face the door, just in time to see the end of a four foot length of rebar, which was being aimed at my back, finish its arc and make contact with the elbow of the man in black. The crack of splintering bone is quite satisfactory; the screech of pain which follows, not so much.
The wielder of the re-bar is not an inch less than six foot eight and he is veritable Goliath from hell. His tightly tattooed arms, which are fifty percent thicker than my thighs, have completed the second wind up with the re-bar and he is stepping into the swing like an oversized Barry Bonds.
He looks very tough and he scares the hell out of me. These guys are not here to beat me up. The re-bar tells it all.
They are here to kill me.
And I have just one shot; if it fails, I’m dead, or worse, crippled for life.
I pivot to my left, shoulder to the wall, and drop into a crouch while bringing my right knee up to my chest. Braced against the wall and with every ounce of my strength, I drive my right heel hard into his kneecap as the re-bar whistles over the top of my head.
For a normal man, the kick would demolish the knee joint, leaving everything below the femur hanging like wet spaghetti. But for Goliath it does not. However, it has, at the very least, shattered the patella, inflicting enough damage to drop him backwards, bellowing, onto the bed which promptly gives up the ghost and falls apart under his weight.
I grab both the window of opportunity and the garbage bag with my clothes. In three seconds flat I am out of there. Members of drug gangs are sometimes armed and I doubt Hell’s Goliath will have any qualms about shooting me.
Trying to ignore the pain in my foot from the kick I delivered, I dash down the hallway, tensing my back against the almost inevitable thwack of a bullet and praying that the injury to his knee will spoil his aim. Bob, the manager of the Lion, is coming out of his office, drawn by the noise from the room. He is carrying a baseball bat and blocks my way. He knows me well enough as a good, regular tenant so I should be able to talk my way out of this.
“A couple of dealers tried to kill me.” I say, “I’d leave it alone if I were you.”
I look back. There is no one in the corridor and the noise from the room is changing. The shrieks of the man in black have turned into sobbing and Goliath is now shouting profanities. I hear him bellow, “I’ll fuckin’ kill you Rogan.” Shit! How the hell does he know my name?
Bob’s a good guy. He takes a long look at me then says, “OK. Get outta here. But don’t you think of coming back any time soon. I can’t have ’em coming back for you.” He goes back into the office and I hear the click of the lock and the sliding of the bolt but by then, I am halfway down the stairs on my way back to the streets.
As I push through the door of the hotel, I almost knock over an old man in sneakers and a beige gabardine raincoat who is running on the spot in front of the hotel. It is Nelson, a regular fixture on the downtown east side. Nelson can be seen at all times of the day, running anywhere and everywhere. No one has ever seen him walk. Nelson is not playing with a full deck and should be in care but, like so many others, the health care system has abandoned him to the streets. He is an old-timer whom Roy and I have always helped when we can. Right now he is in a state of high agitation.
I do not have time for Nelson right now; I have got to get far away from this location. But before I can run off he says, “Rocky, it’s Roy, come on, quick.” He takes my arm and starts a fast shuffle down Powell Street towards Oppenheimer Park, dragging me after him. The sentence was a great effort for the usually monosyllabic Nelson. I tighten my grip on the garbage bag and jog along beside him.
On the corner of Dunlevy is an ambulance, red and blue lights strobing. The paramedics are lifting a body on to a stretcher. I sprint past Nelson and get to the ambulance as they are wheeling the stretcher towards the open back doors. Roy is conscious and they have a clear plastic oxygen mask over his face. I lean over him and he mouths the word “Sorry.” Now I know how Goliath and his buddy were able to find my accustomed hang out and how they knew my name.
The paramedics slide Roy into the back of the ambulance.
“Can I come with him?” I ask.
“You a relative?” the female of the duo asks.
“No, but—”
“Sorry, sir. Only relatives.”
“Where are you taking him?” I ask.
“St. Paul’s.”
Her partner closes the back doors, gets into the cab and drives off.
My strategy for survival on the streets has claimed another casualty. But now I know what I need to do.
9
Cal
You have got to be kidding me.” I am stunned by what they are saying.
“The forensics don’t lie, Cal.”
It is Monday and we are sitting in an interview room in the Main Street police station. It is hard to be here again. It makes me think of th
e good times I had working here and makes the loss of my job in the VPD so much more painful. I try to deny it when I am on the streets, but in this building there is no escape from the fact: I was and always will be a cop. It is in my DNA, programmed at the deepest level. The fact that I no longer have a detective’s badge is the most devastating aspect of my spiral into addiction.
Steve’s bombshell has shattered my one faint hope of getting back into the VPD, a hope that has been growing in me since Saturday: solve Kevin’s murder and be welcomed back into the fold. I long to be back in this building and part of the team again, doing the one thing that gave the most meaning to my life, but Steve’s bizarre pronouncement of Kevin’s death as a suicide has ripped that hope away, leaving a profound sense of despair.
“I wish to hell the forensics did lie, Rogan,” Stammo is saying, “Because if it was murder, I would go full blast after you.”
I ignore him. “What was the TOD, Steve?”
“As close as they can figure it, he died at around 9:30, give or take a half hour.”
“So you could have done it before you left there.” Stammo can’t resist taking another shot.
I turn on him. “Make up your frigging mind, Stammo. What are you saying? It’s suicide or it’s murder?”
“The pathologist says it’s suicide,” he gives me that creepy smile again, “but I’ve got a couple of questions about that.” He glances at Steve and I am uneasy at the silent communication which passes between them.
“First thing is: we want to know why you tampered with the crime scene.” He leaves the statement hanging.
They know about the money. I work hard to keep the mixture of shock and guilt off my face. If they search me, I still have most of it in my pocket. It is the perfect motive for murder. Is this talk of suicide a ploy to catch me out in something?
“What?” I try to cover my fear by sounding incredulous. “How d’you figure that?” It comes out with more of a squeak than a ring of righteous indignation.
“He left a note. It was on the floor, part way under the couch. Did you happen to notice it?”
I keep the relief off my face. I cannot see any downside in going for the truth here. “Yes, I did. And, before you ask, yes, I did move it to look at it. It was snagged on something under the couch and it tore when I pulled it out. I’m sorry.”
“We’re wondering if maybe you touched anything else,” Steve says.
“I admit I looked at the diamond ring on the floor but I put it back in exactly the same position. That’s it. I didn’t touch anything else.”
“What about the knife?” Stammo asks.
“Definitely not.”
They are silent. It’s an obvious move to see if I will talk and volunteer anything else and I am gripped by a mad desire to fill the void by telling them about the money; it has weighed on my conscience from the moment I took it. But instead, I push down the guilty feelings and ask, “Why does the pathologist say it was suicide?” I direct the question to Steve.
His face is blank. “We checked with the laundromat, Cal,” he says. “They haven’t offered a do-your-laundry service for over a year. So where the hell were your good clothes on Saturday and why did you lie to us?”
Fortunately, I expected this question and have a plausible lie at hand. I start with the truth, “They were in a garbage bag. I hid them in the bushes at the end of the street.”
“Why’d you do that, Rogan?” Stammo demands.
I put on a sheepish look. Now for the lie. “Because I had heroin with me. I couldn’t run the risk that you’d find it and seize it and maybe arrest me, so I put it in the bag with my clothes and hid it.”
Again they exchange looks. “Give us a minute, Cal,” Steve says and he and Stammo leave the interview room.
I suppress a strong desire to slide my garbage bag under the chair but I dare not draw attention to it; they will be watching me in the two-way mirror. After the incident at the Lion Hotel, I moved into a hostel and I’m not allowed to leave anything there during the day. With Roy in the hospital, I have no one to leave my good stuff with, so I’ve had to bring it with me. I am wearing my good jacket for this meeting but my street jacket, with the blood on it, is in the bag.
I look at the mirror. I know they are there but what are they discussing? Are they going to leave me waiting here for an hour? Or two? Will they keep me until withdrawal starts? Is this whole suicide theory part of a plan to put me at my ease and then entrap me with some damning evidence?
The door slams open and they walk back in. I can sense a tension between them.
“OK, Cal,” Steve says. “We are still treating this as a suicide. There was no sign of a struggle. His Rolex, his wallet full of credit cards and some cash were there in full view, so it wasn’t a robbery.”
Again I suffer a twinge of guilt as I think of the money from Kevin’s wallet that’s in my pocket.
“The knife was his own knife,” Steve continues, “with only his prints on it. The slight blurring of the prints indicates that he pulled the knife into his chest himself. The only prints in his apartment were his, his girlfriend’s and his mother’s. Oh, and yours. But they were only downstairs and on the phone in the kitchen. On top of that, there was the note. As you know, it said, ‘Mom and Dad I.’ We think he started to write a suicide note and then abandoned the idea and just went ahead with it.”
Although I feel an element of relief that maybe they are not thinking of accusing me, this suicide theory feels wrong. I know in my heart that Kevin would never kill himself. I start to say this but Steve cuts me off. “We talked to his parents. His mother said he’d been depressed lately and this was corroborated by his girlfriend. She works with him and said he was having some difficulties with the project he was working on.
“Because of who his family is, the Coroner got Dr. Marcus to come in on Sunday and do the autopsy. She couldn’t find anything that points to murder. She’s even released the body to the funeral home, in deference to his parents, who still carry a lot of weight in City Hall. I’m sorry Cal, your buddy Kevin killed himself.”
I look across the bare table. In the two-way mirror, I can see myself and the backs of their heads. I wonder if there is anyone on the other side of the mirror. Is this all an elaborate trap to catch me out and try to make me for the murder? Or is that just junkie paranoia?
I think back to the crime scene. The body, the knife, the things on the table and the note do all point to suicide, except… Why didn’t he finish writing the note? Why stop after four words? I remember the note… and I know what’s wrong with it.
“Steve, Nick,” I use Stammo’s first name to try and get him on side. “I knew Kevin well. We’ve been friends since eighth grade. We’ve been through a lot together and I see him every week, every Saturday. I can tell you right now, he did not commit suicide. His mother is not the best person to make that judgment; she has always been a borderline depressive herself. And I wouldn’t take the word of that bitch of a girlfriend on anything. Kevin just would not kill himself, especially not over something at work. It doesn’t make sense.”
They’ve made up their minds. “Listen, Cal. We have no evidence. If the Coroner’s office says it’s suicide, we can’t do anything more. I know it’s hard when a good friend has killed himself but you need to accept—”
“Christ, Steve, save me the counsellor speech. I’m telling you that Kevin didn’t kill himself and if you guys won’t take the time to prove it, then I sure as hell will.” My earlier despair disappears. Kevin was murdered; I’m sure of it and I’m going to prove it and rub their noses in it.
Stammo stands and leans over towards me, his white fists placed knuckle down on the table’s surface. “Stay out of this Rogan. Just remember you’re not a cop anymore. When you were one, you weren’t much of one, so just stay the fuck away from this.”
His cheap shot at me is so weak I don’t even think about taking the bait. He wants me to lose it and take a punch at him. As sweet as th
at would be, I just smile at him. If I hit him it’s assaulting a police officer; if he hits me it’s police brutality. So I say, “It’s probably a good job you’re too lazy to pursue this case Stammo, because you’re sure as hell too stupid to solve it.”
“OK. That’s enough.” Steve cuts in, grabbing Stammo’s arm before this whole thing escalates out of control. “We met with you to discuss this as a courtesy, Cal. We’ve told you where we stand and that’s it. I think you’d better go now.”
I nod to him. I shouldn’t have put him in the position of choosing between Stammo and me. With as much dignity as I can muster, which is not much, I pick up my green garbage bag and head for the door.
“Wait a minute, Rogan.”
Stammo is looking at the bag.
“Lemme see that.”
“For Christ’s sake Stammo, there are no drugs in there now. I wouldn’t bring drugs into a police station.”
He takes the bag from me, empties it onto the table and starts rummaging through my things. I am embarrassed that this is the sum total of my possessions and angry with Stammo for pawing through them. A pair of underpants fall onto the floor. I glance at Steve and his look of pity cuts into me.
Stammo lifts up the jacket, looks at the blood stains and smiles at me “Maybe we should take your advice and look into this a bit more. I’ll take this. I wanna test that blood on it.”
“Fuck off, Stammo. I woke up on Saturday morning like this. It was on there before I went to Kevin’s.”
“Whose blood is it, Cal?” Steve asks. He looks embarrassed; he knows where Stammo is going with this.
“I don’t know Steve. When I woke up it…” Then it all comes back in a rush. “Wait a minute, I do remember. It’s Roy’s. He was drunk the night before, got belligerent and threatened some other old drunk. The dumb bastard drew that stupid great knife he loves so much, then cut himself on it. I got his blood all over my jacket when I dragged him out of Beanie’s.”
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 5
