Cold Comfort

by Scott Mackay

  “No,” she said. She looked at the door again. “No, not at all, I’m sorry, I…” She forced a smile. “Come this way.” She tried to shoehorn some enthusiasm into her voice, putting it on for Liz’s sake. “Please,” she said. “Liz, hold my calls until we’re done.”

  He followed the social worker into her office. She was a tall woman, about forty-five, wore a light brown blazer with padded shoulders and a matching skirt, had a slim build, too slim, as if she had a problem. She looked harried. Her eyes narrowed, and she concentrated on Gilbert, her silvery irises squeezing against her pupils.

  “I thought we had this cleared up,” she said, her voice now devoid of enthusiasm. Her voice was hard, flat, demanding. “Someone else was here yesterday to pick up the records.”

  Gilbert opened his briefcase and pulled out the badly typed social work report on Wesley Rowe; then he pulled out a sample social work report from Marion Rowe’s chart, one typed by a transcriptionist in Medical Records and printed on the Lasotec.

  “That’s what I want to talk about,” he said. “I’m just wondering about the difference in these reports. I was wondering why one was done on a laser printer while the other was done on some kind of typewriter.”

  She stared at the reports; and she became so still Gilbert thought she was never going to move again. Gilbert hated this. He hated making Susan Allen squirm like this. She wasn’t a criminal. But because of her negligence, or maybe because she was overworked, Wesley Rowe was up on a first-degree murder charge.

  “Look, give me a break, will you?” she said.

  Gilbert stared at her. He held the stare for close to ten seconds as he watched her hands come together, her head bow, her streaky blonde hair fall over her face; she picked at the nail polish on one of her nails. Quietly, he put the reports back in his briefcase.

  “Susan, Wesley Rowe’s going to be arrested for first-degree murder on Monday,” he said.

  She stopped picking at her nail polish; she kept her head bowed but he knew she was listening.

  “You know what he’s like,” continued Gilbert. “He’s got the mental aptitude of a nine-year-old. You shouldn’t have rubber-stamped him as his mother’s primary caregiver.”

  “He seemed perfectly fine to me.”

  “Susan, he’s lived with his mother his whole life. He can hardly look after himself let alone a sick mother with bladder cancer. I’ve read the chart. First the bladder, then the lungs, and finally into the liver. Here’s a man-child who can barely spell his own name, and he’s faced with watching his own mother die, not to mention suffer, and he’s expected to ease her suffering.” Gilbert shook his head. “Well, he eased her suffering all right. In the only way he knew how.”

  “What do you want me to do?” said Susan. Her voice was thick. But Gilbert wasn’t about to stop.

  “How many times did you meet with them? How carefully did you assess the situation?”

  “We have a form. I filled out the form.”

  “I checked the chart. You met with them five times. The staff doctor indicated palliative care.”

  “Wesley said he wanted to look after his mother at home.”

  “He’s incapable of making decisions for himself.” Gilbert shook his head. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. The doctor doesn’t assess the patient’s social situation, he assesses only their medical condition. It’s up to the Social Work Department to deal with the social issues facing a patient, including the family situation, especially in regard to palliative care. Should you not have drawn up placement papers for Marion Rowe? Should she not have been placed in a palliative care institution? Was it really the proper decision to leave her at home with Wesley?”

  “At the time, it seemed like the best decision.”

  “You typed this report and stuck an old date on it afterward. To cover your tracks. It’s obvious. I don’t know how you thought you could get away with it. I’m not blaming you. We all make mistakes. But now we have to figure out what we’re going to do about it.”

  Susan Allen stared at him. The corners of her lips tightened, drawing into an unintentional pout. Her eyes grew misty. She looked quickly away, sniffled, as if she had a cold. Her mouth opened, like she was about to say something, but then she shut it, as if she knew no matter how many explanations she came up with, none could be satisfactory, none could ever bring Marion Rowe back, or entirely spare Wesley Rowe the consequences of his actions. She finally sat back, pressing her shoulders deep into the worn upholstery of her office chair, and stared at him, the hard edge coming back to her eyes.

  “The Marion Rowe file was dumped on me with fifty others,” she said. “We lost two staff in here this December, and the rest of us had to take up the slack. Cutbacks.” Her brow creased in silent appeal. “We work twelve-hour days around here,” she said. “We get paid for eight. We work the free overtime because we’re afraid we’ll lose our jobs if we don’t. Wesley seemed a little rough, but nothing marked him as overtly handicapped. So I filled out the form. I saved myself the placement report.” She took a deep breath. “If this case gets to the College of Physicians for review, I’m history.”

  She sat back and put her palms flat on her desk.

  “And what if Wesley Rowe goes to prison for first-degree murder?”

  She shrugged. “He killed her, didn’t he?” She gestured toward the chart. “I’ve read the coroner’s report. He axed her seven times. The first officer at the scene found the axe embedded in her head. That seems like murder to me.”

  “Ms. Allen, you don’t seem to understand. What I’m asking is simple. Appear as a witness at Wesley Rowe’s murder trial. Tell the judge what happened. It’s going to affect the sentencing.”

  She again seemed to freeze. Her eyes took on a stark quality.

  “The RMT would have me out the door the next day,” she said.

  “I’m just asking for help. Wesley doesn’t deserve this.”

  She looked angry. “And I don’t deserve to lose my job.”

  “I don’t want to force your hand, Ms. Allen,” he said. “I want you to do it willingly.”

  Gilbert held her gaze; the mist in her eyes thickened. She yanked a tissue from the box and dabbed her lower lids. A hard one, this. She was right. She was probably going to lose her job.

  “You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Allen. But I’m not going to see Wesley Rowe go to jail for twenty-five years when I know for a fact this homicide should have never happened in the first place.”

  As he left the Mount Joseph General Hospital, he saw the evening edition of the Toronto Star inside the vending box beside the revolving door. He read the half-inch headline. CABINET MINISTER’S STEPDAUGHTER FOUND SLAIN. Ronald Roffey had the byline. Gilbert didn’t bother to read the details. As far as he was concerned, there were no details. No details, just a lot of pressure, thanks to Roffey.

  Five o’clock that evening Gilbert and Lombardo met Sonia Bailey, Cheryl’s neighbor, at the Glenarden.

  As the three of them walked down the hall together toward Cheryl’s apartment, Lombardo eyed the lovely mulatto woman surreptitiously. Sonia had about six inches on Joe, but that wasn’t going to stop Lombardo; it never did. Gilbert gave him a look, but Lombardo ignored the older detective.

  A crime-scene notice had been pasted on Cheryl’s door and an X of yellow crime-scene tape had been tacked to the door frame. Gilbert untacked the tape, took out the key, and opened the door. The three of them entered the apartment. Gilbert turned on the light.

  “The pictures have been taken down,” he said, “and you can see that someone’s looked through all those books over there. Just ignore that. Just tell us if you think anything’s been moved around.”

  Sonia nodded and looked around the apartment. Her eyes were wide in mild distress; she could feel the ghosts in here, but she was doing her best to ignore them.

  “Everything looks the same,” she said. “Nothing’s been changed
.”

  She scanned the room again and gave Gilbert a shrug. Today she wore bright red lipstick; her lips, in her coppery face, looked like a piece of tropical fruit, had the blush of an over-ripe mango.

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” said Gilbert.

  The three went into the kitchen. Sonia glanced around.

  She shrugged. “Everything’s the same,” she said.

  They went to the bedroom, then the bathroom. “Nothing’s been changed,” said Sonia.

  So they went back to the living room.

  “We’re sorry to inconvenience you like this, Ms. Bailey,” said Lombardo. “We just thought that on the off chance…before we turn the apartment over to Mr. Waxman…”

  She turned to Lombardo; she smiled, the way all women smiled at Joe. “I wish I could have helped you…more…”

  Gilbert watched the two younger people; their eyes held. Lombardo was good with his eyes. He could convey the most complicated emotions with his eyes, just as he could send the most overt signals with them. Before Gilbert could stop him, Lombardo handed his card to Sonia.

  “Here’s my card,” he said. “You call me if you remember anything, or if you have any concerns.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced at Gilbert. She already had Gilbert’s card. Gilbert kept his mouth shut.

  Lombardo gestured at the room, never for a second losing his charm. “Maybe you can take one last look for us,” he said.

  So she scanned the living room again. Then she looked at the floor. And her eyes narrowed.

  “Actually…” A pretty but puzzled frown came to her face. She looked first at Lombardo, then at Gilbert, then back to Lombardo. Then she looked at the floor again. The two detectives stared at Sonia. “The rug,” she said. The two detectives looked down at the rug. “She usually has that corner facing the window.” Rectangle room, a rectangle rug, but with the rug angled, an interior design tactic to create the illusion of space. “Now it’s pointing to the bookcase,” she said.

  Gilbert knelt and had a closer look at the rug. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “She always had that corner pointing to the window.”

  Gilbert clutched the corner of the rug and lifted; on the floor underneath he saw two paint chips, each pale green; none of the rooms in Cheryl’s apartment were pale green. Also, on the underweave, he saw a large grease smudge. He carefully lifted the paint chip and showed it to Cheryl.

  “Do you have paint like this anywhere in the building?” he asked.

  She peered at the paint. “That’s from the laundry room,” she said. “The laundry room is green.”

  “Those come from the laundry room?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the laundry room?”

  “It’s downstairs,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

  They left Cheryl’s apartment and went downstairs to the laundry room. Nestled at the back in the building’s half-basement, the laundry room had large netted glass windows facing the rear drive and the tenant garages. Each of the windows opened on a center transom, so that as the bottom half was pulled in, the top half was levered out. The transom was well greased; he thought of the grease on the rug. The paint on the window frame, pale green, flaked, revealing an older beige underneath. Gilbert glanced around for security cameras but he saw none.

  “There’s no key?” he said to Sonia. “You don’t need a key to get in?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said.

  Lombardo opened one of the windows; it swung easily. And the gap was wide enough to shove a rolled up rug through; even a rug with a body in it. Lombardo took out a glassine bag, put paint chips inside, then used a cotton swab to wipe some of the grease up. He looked at Gilbert.

  “Ten to one we get a match,” he said.

  After leaving the Glenarden they drove back to College Street in silence. Gilbert kept glancing at Lombardo. Finally, it became too much for Lombardo.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Gilbert. “Why do you keep looking at me like that? You should keep your eyes on the road.”

  Gilbert didn’t reply, continued to drive, sticking to the right of the road at a stodgy sixty kilometers per hour. How could he put this to Joe so he didn’t take it the wrong way?

  “So you liked Sonia,” he said at last.

  “Is that what this is about?” Lombardo sighed.

  “Joe, I think you have to be careful.”

  “I gave her my card. Is that a crime?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Lombardo looked out the window, where the snow fell in thick and steady flakes.

  “She’s pretty,” he said.

  “I know she’s pretty,” said Gilbert. They bumped over the streetcar tracks at St. Clair Avenue. “But you’ve got to be careful. Marsh is watching you. You can’t be trying to pick up every witness you see. Marsh is just looking for an excuse. And I’d hate to see you give him one.”

  Lombardo grew solemn, stared pensively at the glove compartment. The snow didn’t look as if it were going to quit any time soon and Gilbert decreased his speed to forty kilometers per hour as he eased the Lumina down the Avenue Road hill toward Davenport.

  “Did you see the way she looked at me?” said Lombardo.

  Gilbert nodded, checked his rearview mirror. “I saw,” he said.

  Lombardo gave his head a slow melancholy shake. “I don’t know, Barry. I have a feeling about her.”

  “You always have a feeling, Joe.”

  “No, this time I’m serious.”

  “You’re always serious, Joe.”

  They parked on Mount Pleasant Road the next day, just south of Eglinton Avenue, across from the Hennessey-Newbigging Funeral Home. The streets were clogged with snow and it was still coming down. Gilbert sipped his coffee and looked at Lombardo. The funeral service for Cheryl Latham was still going on inside and wouldn’t be over for another few minutes. They had two detectives inside, and another two at the burial plot. They had both video and camera surveillance. Lombardo was having a hard time concentrating. Lombardo had spent an hour with Marsh this morning.

  “Did you remind him of the Sharon Brierley collar?” asked Gilbert.

  “I gave him everything,” said Lombardo. “I pulled out every star case I’d ever had. You know what he said about the Brierley case?”

  “What?”

  “He said I took too long. What’s he expect with arson? His idea of a perp is a guy who’s still holding a gun and has blood all over his pants. I had to build that case. I had to go back. I had to search. I don’t bluster my way through interrogations the way he does. I go armed to the teeth with evidence. Does he think evidence grows on trees in an arson-murder case?”

  Gilbert saw movement at the side entrance of the funeral home. Six pallbearers carried out Cheryl’s coffin at hip level. They slid it into the back of the hearse. Mourners emerged from the front door, walked around to the small parking lot, and started getting into the cars for the drive to Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

  “Look,” said Gilbert, pointing. “There’s Webb.”

  But Lombardo seemed oblivious.

  “I told him you can’t rush these things,” he said. “You saw what was left of that apartment. Nothing. The only thing we had was some accelerant patterns and a corpse charred beyond recognition.”

  Gilbert shrugged, determined to make Lombardo feel better.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Marsh doesn’t like it when anybody has to leave rotation for more than a week. It offends his sense of order.”

  “We had the whole city clamoring about that kid. If I hadn’t left rotation, she’d still be open, and Ling would be breathing down Marsh’s back.”

  “What about the Byrnes case?”

  “Same thing. He didn’t like how extensive it was. He thinks we should all get our collars within two days of the crime, a week at the most. He thinks he’s still in patrol.”

  “That’s Latham over there,” said Gi
lbert. “The tall man with the glasses?” He pointed.

  Latham had tears in his eyes. Lombardo was actually able to get his mind off Marsh long enough so he could look at Latham.

  “He needs a better tailor,” was all Lombardo had to say about Latham.

  Sally, the Filipino housekeeper, led Latham down the freshly salted steps, holding his elbow, directing him the way she might direct an old man. Gilbert’s eyes strayed to the parking lot. Danny waited by the Mercedes. The theory so far was that Cheryl knew her killer. He took out his notebook and scribbled an entry. Cheryl knew Sally and Danny. And it hadn’t been a particularly amicable relationship.

  “He’s got a two-minute memory,” said Lombardo, going back to Marsh. “He doesn’t remember the DeMarco collar or the Bush collar. Those were tough cases. Has he ever done an exhumation?”

  “No,” said Gilbert.

  “Then how would he know?” he said. “He has no idea how hard I worked on the Bush case, how I had to go back ten years and find that forged signature. He’s not interested. He said learn your ABCs, Joe: arrest, book, convict. Like it’s really that simple. I’m telling you, Barry, he’s got his sights set on me. When the cuts come, I’m going to be one of the first to go.”

  Lombardo smacked the dashboard with the palm of his hand.

  Tom Webb got into the lead limousine while Sally helped Latham into the back seat of his Mercedes.

  “Just forget it, Joe,” said Gilbert. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I’m going to fight it if he picks me,” he said. “I’m not going back to patrol.”

  “I liked patrol,” said Gilbert.

  “Oh, Christ, you’re not going to tell me another Alvin Matchett story are you?”

  “He was a good cop, Joe.”

  “I’m serious, Barry, I was meant for this work. I’ll take it right to Ling if I have to.”

  “Relax, Joe,” said Gilbert. “You’re not going back to patrol. Once we find Cheryl’s killer, they’ll keep you in Homicide forever. You’ll have cobwebs all over you by the time they let you out.”