I had difficulty getting up and so he leaned his crutches against a wall and, balancing on one foot, crouched down, picked me up and sat me on a bench: quite a feat of strength.
He sat beside me for a moment. “Why you take photos of drunks and junkies?” he asked.
“It’s for a book, a photo essay about addiction.”
He stared into my eyes. “Why?”
All the clever rationale, which my agent and publisher had lauded and encouraged, floated out of my mind under the gaze of this giant. And the truth flooded in. “I guess I want to understand why people become addicts.”
He grunted as he hauled himself to his feet, hopped over and retrieved his crutch. “It’s because they’re a bunch of lowlifes,” he said as he limped away and stationed himself outside the art gallery across the street, not looking directly at me but kind of scanning the crowd.
Now three hours later, I feel a frisson of fear as I park the Porsche. Several pairs of eyes swivel in my direction. Cal always says that the people on the streets of the downtown East side are harmless but it’s easy for him; he’s big and he’s tall and he’s tough. When I look at them, all I can feel is an undertow of violence flowing beneath their resentful looks.
I don’t know whether to leave my camera equipment in the back of the SUV or bring it with me. If I bring it, I risk someone grabbing it from me and maybe pushing me over or hitting me or worse. If I leave it, I am inviting someone to smash the back window and grab it anyway.
The ever present spectre of my MS decides it for me. Carrying the heavy camera cases could easily throw me off balance. Anyway, I am parked right outside the coffee-shop where Cal agreed to meet me, so I can keep an eye on the car from there.
My heartbeat triples as, without warning, my door flies open. I was sure it was locked. I cannot suppress the gasp of fear as I spin to my left and grab at the door’s arm rest, hoping I can slam it shut before whoever—
“It’s OK, Sam. It’s only me.”
“Cal.” I breathe a huge sigh of relief, tinged with anger at him for scaring me and at myself for being scared. “You frightened the life out of me.”
He smiles and shakes his head. I know what he’s thinking. Scared-ee-cat. I should be mad but I can’t suppress a laugh from bubbling up.
I get out of the car and take his arm in case I stumble. I hold on tight and then am aware that this is the closest we have been physically since we separated and, unexpectedly, I like it. This makes me feel awkward and I can sense that he feels it too. He looks at me and smiles that goofy Cal smile. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea but I can’t explain why I am holding his arm so tightly. I need to keep the knowledge of my MS from him. The decisions he needs to make now must be made because he wants to make them, not out of pity for me. I pray that the news I have for him will be the lever that pushes him into doing the right thing. If it doesn’t, well…
He leads me into the coffee-shop. It is remarkably up-market for this part of town; it’s warm and cozy and the coffee smell is strong. We order and I pay.
I follow Cal to a table. It’s low and there is a love seat beside it, its back to the wall. Cal sits and I have to choose between sitting opposite him and talking loudly or sitting beside him which feels just a bit too intimate. I opt to sit beside him but avoid any physical contact by sliding as close to the arm as I can.
After the moment of silence he asks, “So what did you want to talk to me about? When I called last night to talk to Ellie, you said it was urgent.”
Now that the moment is here, I find myself avoiding it for fear that I will lose my temper and precipitate the opposite of what I want to happen.
“How was Kevin’s funeral yesterday?” I ask.
“Pretty grim.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come.” I can’t tell him why: that I felt so sick I couldn’t even drive. “I can’t believe he’s gone. It was only last Saturday; you were with Ellie and he was probably doing it right then. Oh my God, I didn’t think of that before. Why would he kill himself, Cal?”
“He didn’t.”
“But it said in the Sun that he—”
“Yes, I know. But I knew Kevin. He wouldn’t do that.”
“But Cal—”
“And I have evidence. I’m going to check it out tomorrow morning. Then I’ll be sure.”
I can feel the old sadness hit me. To Cal, solving a murder was always more important than anything, more important than Ellie, more important than me. Even though heroin took it all away from him, he is still driven by the need to be a cop. It was that drive and the sheer dedication that he had to solving crime that first attracted me to him so many years ago. I guess I am attracted to men with that kind of drive. George certainly has it for business. Will George’s drive to do the next deal, and then the next and the next, eventually distance me from him too?
The barista calls out our order and Cal goes to fetch it. He is not dressed in the clothes he normally wears when he comes to see Ellie; these are more worn and stained. I am seized by a strong desire to go and get my camera and photograph him, to look into his soul through the camera lens, which always reveals the truth. Just to know why.
But now is not the time, damn it.
He sets the coffees down on the table. “How are things looking for getting into detox, Cal?”
“I’m on the waiting list. They’re full right now and with the winter coming on people are going into detox just to get off the streets. They said they won’t have a place for me for another week or ten days. There just aren’t enough detox beds in Vancouver.” I recognize his tone of voice. It’s the addictive voice talking. The whiny one that rationalizes why he has or hasn’t done something. God knows I heard it enough times when we were married. I look at him and I know he recognizes it too.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough, this time, Cal.” He opens his mouth to object but I forestall him with an irritated gesture. “I got called into Ellie’s school yesterday afternoon, called into the Principal’s office. There was a problem in class. Mrs. Tanaka, her teacher, was asking the children what their parents did for a living and when Ellie’s turn came, she stood up and said proudly, ‘My Mommy’s a photographer and my Daddy used to be a policeman and now he’s a junkie.’ Some of the less innocent kids in the class sniggered at her and one boy said something about his Dad showing him ‘filthy junkies begging for money on street corners.’ This caused the kids to laugh even more and, before Mrs. Tanaka could do anything, Ellie flew across the room and started hitting and kicking the boy. She pushed him out of his chair and he hit his head on the desk of the kid next to him. He had to be taken to Lions Gate emergency and have stitches in his forehead.”
Cal’s face has gone white. He just sits there, saying nothing, running the fingers of his left hand through his hair, a gesture I remember him doing whenever he was worried about something.
“Anyway, the school has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to violence. They told me she is no longer welcome there and that I have to find another school for her.”
“There’s gotta be something we can do to get the school to change their minds.”
“I tried that. George came with me and he can be very persuasive but the school would not budge an inch. It’s a private school; they can do it. On top of that, we may get sued by the kid’s parents.”
“Sam, I am so sorry.” He is clearly devastated by what I have told him but I need to press on.
“I’m afraid ‘sorry’ is not good enough, Cal. There are two things you need to do. First, you have to commit to going into detox. Today’s the third. If what you say is true about getting in,—”
“It is, I—”
“—you have until the thirteenth of this month. If you are not in by then, as much as I hate the thought, I am going to court and quashing our custody agreement.”
“OK, Sam. You have my word.” He looks beaten but I have to go the next step.
“Second thing, you need to talk to
Ellie and explain to her why violence is never an option when people say nasty things to her. Then you need to explain to her what your addiction is all about and what you are going to do about it. OK?”
He looks off into the distance, through the windows of the coffee-shop and out onto Main Street. I cannot tell what is going on in that clever mind but I can see that my news is weighing heavily upon him. After what seems an age, but is probably only thirty seconds, he reaches a decision. He nods to himself and the frown lines wash out of his face.
“When can I see her,” he says. “I have a lot to put right.”
“Tomorrow evening, George will be in Toronto for a meeting. Why don’t you come over to the house and have dinner with Ellie and me. You can speak to her then.”
“Thank you Sam. I won’t let you down on this.”
His choice of words is an echo of the past and brings tears to my eyes. When he first started taking drugs, he would use those very words right before he let me down. Again and again and again.
15
Cal
This is Kevin’s office.”
Sandi cuts me a sharp look, reacting to the note of accusation in my voice. “When Kevin died, I was promoted to Director of Research of QX4, so it’s mine now. Do you have a problem with that?”
I am invaded by a desire to make some remark about not waiting long for the body to cool but I rein it in. I must not blow this meeting.
We sit on opposite sides of her very messy desk; Kevin would have a fit if he could see it. Under the white lab coat she is dressed in jeans, shirt and a sweater, a plain ensemble that understates her figure. Every visible item of clothing is either black or white. She is without makeup and her jet black hair is tied back in a severe ponytail.
“Look, Sandi. I’m sorry.” She maintains the best poker face I have seen in a while. “The fact is that you and I have never got on that well and we both know it. But one thing is for sure, we both loved Kevin and we both have a right to know how he died. I’m convinced that the Coroner and the police and Kevin’s mother are all wrong when they say he committed suicide and when I talked to you after the funeral on Tuesday, I felt pretty sure you agreed. That’s why you said you’d see me here today, isn’t it?”
“No, Cal, it isn’t.” No crack in her expression.
Did I misread her that badly? “Then why did you agree to see me?”
“Isn’t it obvious? To try and dissuade you from pursuing this crazy idea that Kevin was murdered. It can only cause more grief for his mother, for me and, for that matter, for this company.” The words come out stilted, like she is reading from a script.
In the brief silence, I can hear a buzz of conversation from the adjacent office.
“Sandi, do you have a sample of Kevin’s handwriting here?”
“Why?” Her brow is furrowed and her mouth is pursed in annoyance; it is a very Sandi expression.
“Please, Sandi. Do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you show me, please?”
“Why?” She asks. If she will not show me I might as well pack up shop and go.
I stand up and reach down for my green garbage bag, so out of place in the plush surroundings. It works. There is a momentary look of panic in her eyes.
“Sit down, Cal.” She says it like she is talking to a recalcitrant teenager. I take my time doing so.
She takes a hardcover notebook from the credenza behind Kevin’s desk—I guess I need to accept that it’s her desk now—and hands it to me. I open it at random. My heart rate increases as right there in front of me is the confirmation I was seeking. About half way down the page is a section headed ‘Indications of Addiction’ followed by a numbered list. I look at a couple of other pages and the pattern is consistent.
I let her stew for a moment before speaking. “The police found the beginnings of a letter, supposedly a suicide note, that read ‘Mom & Dad I.’ You know that it was me who found the body?” She nods. “Well I remember seeing the note and something seemed wrong so I got the police to give me a copy.”
I take it from my pocket and hand it to her. “Well, straight away you can see that the ‘and’ is not spelled out; it’s an ampersand. You know how precise Kevin was; he was almost pedantic. He would never write a suicide letter to his parents starting Mom & Dad? He would start it out with ‘Dear’ or ‘My dear’ and he would write out the word ‘and’ in full. Plus he would have started a new line before writing the ‘I’ or at least put in a comma. But the real clincher is if you look at his notebook, see, here, halfway down the page. You see the word ‘Indications’? See how he writes the letter I? It has little lines at the top and bottom of the letter. But underneath there is the number one which he writes as a straight vertical line with no serifs.
“Kevin wasn’t writing ‘Mom and Dad I’ he was writing ‘Mom & Dad 1’, like he was making a list, maybe his Christmas shopping list. Who would write a Christmas list if they were thinking of committing suicide?”
Sandi laughs and it is not a pleasant sound. “That’s it?” she sneers. “That’s the proof he didn’t kill himself? If that’s all you’ve got, you might as well—” she stops herself in mid sentence. What was she about to say? You might as well go? So, why would she cut herself off like that?
I drop my plan to try and convince her that Kevin’s death was murder and just sit looking at her. It works.
She rises from her chair, walks over to the door, opens it and checks the hallway outside. After closing the door, she returns to the desk with a look of indecision on her face. She sits, then gets up and walks to the window. She stands motionless, looking across the parking lot.
From the next door office I hear a peal of laughter. Sandi cuts a glance at the adjoining wall and, for the first time, I see a real, unscripted emotion in her face. It is fear.
I find myself holding my breath, letting her decide by herself to talk to me about whatever is on her mind. After about thirty seconds she takes a deep breath, shakes her head, walks back to the desk and perches herself on the corner. Her face is softened by an unbearable sadness.
“OK.” Her voice is just above a whisper. “I am going to have to tell you this. But I need to know that I can trust you to keep it confidential and not mention it to anyone, not the police, not even Brad, in fact, especially not Brad. If word of this got out, it could ruin this company and put a lot of people out of work. Worst of all, it would shatter Kevin’s reputation beyond repair and be devastating to his parents.
“The reason I’m telling you is that if you continue to stir up trouble by claiming Kevin’s death was a murder, it might all come out and cause a lot of pain to a lot of people. So, Cal, can I trust you on this?”
I quash the feeling that she has rehearsed this little speech. I don’t want to make the promise because I may have to break it. But then again, I have made three other promises in the past three days. I have already broken one and I know I may have to break them all.
I hold her eye. “Yes, Sandi. I give you my word.” Sincerity: once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.
“How much do you know about what we do here?” she asks.
“Not a lot. For some reason, Kevin never talked to me about his work.” In retrospect, it seems strange; why did he always avoid the subject?
“We are on the brink of a breakthrough with a product that Kevin devoted his working life to developing. His thesis was that addiction is a genetically triggered, neurochemical imbalance and that addicts are born with it. He discovered that the imbalance can be changed by drug therapy.”
“What, you take a pill and bingo, you’re cured? You’re not an addict anymore? You can’t be serious.” I cannot control the laughter that bubbles to the surface.
Sandi shushes me and, again, I see the look of fear slither across her face.
“I’m deadly serious.” She leans forward as her voice returns to a whisper. “Kevin was a genius. He decided to start by dealing with addiction to depressants: alcoho
l, heroin, Valium. He once told me that the decision to start there was in part technical but was also because of you. He wanted to develop a drug that would cure you. He never came to terms with the fact that his best friend was a jun— an addict. He worked like a man possessed, six days a week, twelve, fifteen, sometimes twenty hours a day. The only day he ever took off was Saturday and the reason for that was so you had somewhere to go to prepare for your visits with your daughter.” Her voice is laced with bitterness at this last.
I had no idea that Kevin was so driven and I am humbled that he sacrificed his one day off to help me.
“Do you know anything about the pharmaceuticals business?” she breaks in on my thoughts.
“No, I… No. Nothing.”
“Well, when you are developing drugs for use by humans, the government monitors your every move. As you go forward you have to get permissions for every phase of development. The most time consuming is getting authorization to do human trials: to test the drug on real human subjects. The submission for running a human trial can make a stack of paper five feet high. You send it in to the federal government and they can, and sometimes do, take years to authorize you to proceed.”
There is silence from the office next door. She leans forward and drops her voice even lower. “Kevin did animal trials. We gave heroin or Valium or alcohol to rats and later to pigs. We got them addicted then made half of them quit cold turkey and gave the drug to the other half. And the drug seemed to work just fine, with no ill effects. Of course, we were able to check our results by examining the behaviour and the brains of the rats and pigs but they can’t relate their experiences, so he was very impatient to begin human trials.
“He submitted the request for human trials as soon as we started testing on animals but one of the bureaucrats in Ottawa kept raising objections to various elements of the submission. He kept asking for more and more data and would then delay months before coming back and asking for even more. Kevin became extremely frustrated. He presented them with all the details of the animal trials but felt he was being stonewalled. He took it very personally.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 8
