Clean Sweep

by Michael J. Clark

  Sawatski had long made a point of practising the punctuation of his “No comment” statement, just in case Worschuk showed up. Nothing pissed him off more than a crime reporter who thought he had a place amongst cops, especially one who saw no problem with freelance drug-mule work. Sawatski pondered his current dilemma. Wasn’t he just like Worschuk? No, it’s not the same thing, he thought. Whatever mess he had fallen into was simply the transparency of the thin blue line.

  Until now, the calls from The Voice were for minor requests. Many of them lacked any obvious criminal element or intent, though it was still information from crime scenes or arrests that wouldn’t be made public. The calls always came through his department cellular line, always Unknown Caller on a WPS phone that had been programmed to list even unlisted numbers and payphones. Sawatski knew that getting caught would still mean immediate suspension, or worse. Still, an extra $500 per request, in cash, made the support cheques to his ex-wife easier to scrawl. There wasn’t a cop on the force who could say that they had never seen some benefit from the badge. This wasn’t corruption; this was a typical shift. The only thing that bothered him was the briefcase. It was the first time The Voice had made a request for a physical piece of evidence.

  “Hey, Miles,” said Worschuk, as he adjusted his ample belted overhang. “Where’s the fire?”

  Sawatski feigned interest in a blank notebook page. “You’re a little confused, Dave. That would be the guys with the shiny red trucks.”

  “Would it kill you to call me Downtown?” Worschuk was always trying to get cops to call him by his nickname, a throw to his Downtown 24/7 crime beat column. It seemed more important than the volleys at his intellect.

  Sawatski wasn’t in the mood. “I’m busy, David. And there’s no news to tell.”

  “That’s not what I hear.” Worschuk fumbled in his outer pocket for his digital recorder. Sawatski grabbed the pocket, pulling Worschuk up close and personal. The grab was hard enough to dislodge Worschuk’s Domo Gas toque, revealing a messy shock of curly red hair, courtesy of his Irish mother. The clownish topping was how he had received the nickname that Sawatski preferred.

  “Listen carefully, Clowntown, you don’t hear shit, you don’t see shit, and you don’t know shit.” Sawatski snapped his notebook closed for effect. “And you won’t get shit from me. And yes, you can quote me on that.” He started back up the walk to the stairs.

  Worschuk managed to put two and two together, more or less. “Are you still mad at me? And it’s Downtown, not Clowntown.”

  Sawatski stopped but didn’t turn. He thought about Worschuk’s story, the one he’d written about Sawatski’s old partner. A career-ender with enough damage for a dismissal before his twenty-five: a low-track hooker crying cop rape. The star witness recanted about two weeks after the story ran and a week after Sawatski’s partner ate his gun. His name was Jerry Klein. He left a wife, three kids, and a houseboat in Kenora. Sawatski turned with his right hand firmly gripping the butt of his Glock, his jacket open to make sure Worschuk saw it, and looked at the reporter. “No comment.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tommy eased the Econoline into its space behind The Guiding Light, using the wall as the parking stop. He had to, unless he wanted to come out in the morning to a missing battery. He gathered up the bulk of the important gear for Paulie’s “disappearance.” The Light had a rear entrance that led to a staircase that wouldn’t wake the guests. There were no exterior windows, assuring the casual observer that this staircase had been added years after the initial construction. The only light in the stairwell came from the windows on the original building, which after lights out was the glow from the vintage fire exit light bulb covers. The windows used chicken wire mesh sandwiched in the panes. If the bulbs could flicker, it would give the illusion that the Light was on fire. Tommy had often thought about dropping that match.

  The door at the top opened into a storage area jammed with blankets, toilet paper, and outdated magazines with the covers torn off to discourage resale. He deposited his gear in the corner; it was just loud enough to let someone on the other side of the makeshift curtains in his room know that he was home. He found a meagre smile as he heard her stir. Tommy peeked through the curtains at Cindy Smyth. At least, he thought it was Cindy; with three comforters piled high atop her, it was hard to tell.

  Cindy and Tommy went way back, almost too far. Calling it a relationship seemed weak. Calling it a union of soul-mates seemed way over the top. They had come up with a name for it once: kindred observers. It seemed that when anything really bad happened, Tommy and Cindy would find each other. Tommy had put the pieces back together and delivered a beating on each of those involved after Cindy was gang-raped at a party. Cindy had pulled the Smith & Wesson out of Tommy’s mouth when he first returned to Winnipeg and had thoughts of joining Jeremy. They had never considered themselves to have dated. That would have involved such suburban niceties as dinners, movies, and sorting socks. They marvelled at how amazing the sex was without all of that annoying mental foreplay. They dated other people, lay down with their share of strangers. They watched as their faces sunk, their parts sagged, and their hair greyed. It was a marriage; Smyth and Bosco–style.

  Tommy went for the customary peek to confirm the clothing situation. Cindy pulled the covers back in protest. “I’m fucking freezing in here!” Cindy whispered as loud as she could without waking up the neighbours. “Did you pay the hydro?”

  “Two days ago,” said Tommy. He noticed her flannel pyjamas on a nearby chair and grinned as he dropped his pants to the floor. “Maybe you’re just a frigid bitch.”

  “Maybe you prefer the little boys, like the last guy here.”

  “Supercunt.”

  “Felchfairy.”

  Their lips met hard. Tommy reached underneath the covers, grabbing her left breast and twisting her amethyst nipple ring. Cindy pushed the covers back, rolling over on her side just enough to present the tattooed image of Icarus, drawn with a face that mimicked Tommy’s, in the not-so-obvious sense. Tommy bit into her nape, hard enough to leave a mark and an approving coo. She loved his hand work, and he obliged, ensuring that she arrived strong. He found his way inside then, cupping both breasts as he contemplated the quality of the Icarus artwork with his thrusting. Loose file folders slid out of an overturned box above them, falling one by one to the floor. A few of the Guiding Light guests on the other side of the glass joined in with muted solo performances. Tommy was still feeling his spasms when Cindy spoke.

  “Did it go off okay?”

  “What? You didn’t feel that?”

  “No, dipshit. Paulie!”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s gone.” Tommy started to get up to grab Cindy’s pyjamas and an extra blanket. She always felt colder after, at least since turning forty-two — the joys of pre-menopause. Cindy pulled him back.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Just stay close. I’ll be warm enough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Goodnight, Supercunt.”

  “Goodnight, Felchfairy.”

  It was about five a.m. when it happened. Experience had taught Tommy to simply hang on to Cindy as tight as he could, stay quiet, and ride it out. Cindy was experiencing what they called sleep-raging. Waking her was dangerous; that’s how he got the scar over his left eye. Simple utterances of comfort would unleash her fury. It felt like Cindy was having some form of convulsion, though this was anything but textbook. It was as though she was reliving every horrible occurrence in her life, word for word, page for page. The rapes, the molestations from foster family and caregivers, the demeaning acts in search of acceptance, the blood on her hands.

  Cindy was a killer. It was all over the papers; even hit the national TV newscasts when it all went down. Some had called her a hero, though she knew better. A domestic argument had spilled into the streets of the West Kildonan neighbourho
od, near Kildonan Park. Petrified onlookers watched in horror as the knife-wielding man, a Heaven’s Reject soldier, chased his estranged wife along the grassy centre median. He was on top of her, on stab number six, when Cindy knocked him loose with her Triumph Bonneville. Even with a compound fracture on her left leg, Cindy still managed to lift a loose hunk of curbstone, most likely dislodged by a snow-clearing crew. She landed the stone three times before a park police officer wrestled her down. The case and the Heaven’s Reject’s casket were closed tight. Coming to the aid of the woman, who later died in hospital, seemed textbook heroic. Cindy had wanted to kill for a very long time; she just wasn’t sure if it would be herself or someone else. The circumstances surrounding her actions, and their acceptance by the media and the public at large, made it far worse. Tommy couldn’t comfort her as she recovered from her suicide attempt at the Selkirk Mental Hospital. He was in Federal U.S. custody at the time. Tommy had discovered that rubbing the scars on her wrists during the convulsions seemed to help. He would bury his head in her brown and grey tresses, keeping his lips pressed against her neck. The silence. That was always the weird part. During every convulsion, Cindy never made a sound.

  Cindy had helped Tommy to paint The Light before it opened in early 2011. She had been there ever since. She took novice care of the books, kept an eye open for the inspectors, and prayed. She would always recite her prayers after the sleep-raging. Tommy never knew for sure if she was awake.

  “Hi God, it’s Cindy. Thanks for today. It was a good day. Thanks for timing the food delivery after that prick, I mean, gentleman from Food Protection had left. Thanks for no fights today with the guests. Thanks for keeping the low-lifes and the cops out. Thanks for helping Tommy get Paulie out. Thanks for Tommy. Thanks for Tommy.” Cindy paused. “And thanks for a sober day. Amen.”

  Tommy pulled her close. He smiled at the thought that the day was only an hour and a half away from starting.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sawatski sat idling in a light-green Crown Victoria outside Spence’s well-kept bungalow on Atlantic Avenue. She had taken her personal car to the scene and wanted to keep it from getting damaged in the Public Safety Building garage. The parkade had been crumbling for years, dropping tiny chunks of salt-eaten concrete from the seams as cars passed overhead. Sawatski was past the point of caring about his car, or much else. He watched her through the kitchen window, quickly preparing a healthy lunch that he should have been having himself. He would probably end up at The Line Up on Albert Street, in the Exchange District. They had the best fish and chips under ten bucks in town.

  He wondered why Spence didn’t just park in the Vice Division parking lot. The Vice building was a converted hydro power station, about three blocks south of the PSB, the Public Safety Building. This was the temporary home for Robbery-Homicide, thanks to the discovery of asbestos at the PSB. The administration had decided to move the police service into the main post office building on Graham Avenue, which was being vacated for a new post office distribution centre at the airport. The problem was that both buildings were of equal vintage, which had put the entire transformation a year behind schedule and millions over budget. Sawatski thought it would be easier to work from The Line Up, and probably healthier, at least for his respiratory system.

  The first floor of the temporary Vice address had been converted into service garages for police vehicles, with a separate investigation area for fatal accidents and vehicles that needed additional investigation by forensics. Even in the early morning hours, the second floor was always crowded. Sawatski smiled as a mixture of Vice and Robbery-Homicide members did their best Sawatski Stretch as he entered. He turned his head to Spence as he walked. “Your turn to pick.”

  “Aww, c’mon. I always pick the lamest one.”

  “I’m feeling like a John Lithgow over-the-top this morning.”

  “Then that’ll be Bangster for sure.”

  They rounded a corner of filing cabinets and came upon Constable Billy “Bangster” Sangster, in full Sawatski Stretch. One of Billy’s girlfriends had turned him on to yoga, and his newfound flexibility had made for some comical smartphone screen savers. He was sitting on the corner of his desk, with his right leg pointing at the ceiling, almost touching his ear-lobe.

  “Al-most there,” said Sangster, doing his best to smile while keenly aware that he was dangerously close to pulling something important.

  Sawatski started to clap. Spence flipped a toonie at Sangster, who grabbed it with his left hand, almost losing his balance. “Enjoy your double-double, Bangster.” Sangster had earned the nickname from his known prowess with the emergency room nurses at the Health Sciences Centre during his rookie days. He stood just over six feet, thin but sculpted, with a tight salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “Tim Fucking Hortons medium doo-blay-doo-blay! Sweet nectar of life!” said Sangster as he lowered his leg, with just a touch of painful grimace for the approving crowd. He handed a healthy file to Spence. “Here it is: The Fast Times and Most-Likely Short Life of Claire-Bear Hebert.”

  “You’ve probably got that right.” Spence flipped open the file, noticing the tally of arrests, old mugshots, and hand-drawn statements. Much of this would be in the WPS database, though history had taught that a cryptic scrawl or notation could mean the difference between an arrest and a skip.

  “Gotta love a gimme,” said Sangster as he balanced the toonie on his nose, like a third-rate street performer. “It sure helps with the clearance stats.” Sangster checked on the status of his current double-double. He frowned at the weight and the ambient temperature. Everyone on the second floor knew that Sangster would squeeze a drop of Timmy’s out of a salt-stained floormat before another brand of coffee touched his lips. His cubicle was littered with past and present shards of Roll Up the Rim prize attempts.

  Sawatski looked up from his comfy chair, slightly annoyed. “It ain’t a gimme unless they walk into the PSB. And something tells me this one will hit the basement of the HSC first.”

  “True that,” said Sangster. “Got an address?”

  “Doubtful,” said Spence. “Looks like off-the-grid shit. She’s probably sharing a place with another working girl, maybe an alias on the lease.” Spence flipped through the file. “Last known was a general delivery in Fisher Branch. I’ll check the latest to be sure, but I’m not hopeful.”

  “When was the last arrest?”

  Spence was already at her computer, checking the stats. “Not since ’99. She’s a smart skank, I’ll give her that.” She checked a little further into known associates. “All of her friends are dead, in jail, or missing.”

  “If only I were so lucky,” said Sawatski, massaging his neck. It was coming up on eight a.m., still two hours away from The Line Up’s lunch start. The techs were still processing the scene, so it would be at least an hour until someone sent him the pictures. He flipped open his cell, a Blackberry Pearl with plenty of nicks and scrapes, consulting the pictures he had snapped before the techs arrived — at least there was one advantage of the digital age. The Robbery-Homicide inspector wouldn’t be thrilled to know Sawatski had taken them. The WPS was still exercising damage control from a crime-scene snapshot that had made its way onto a Facebook page. It was a double slaying at a known crystal-meth lab. The issue had more to do with identifying key members of the task force, who were now riding desks. Sawatski looked at the close-up of the razor in Stephanos’s neck. It seemed downright vintage, the type favoured by the boutique barber shops that had popped up over the past two years. Most of the high-class prostitutes were carrying small calibre automatics at this point. Sangster relayed a story about a disgruntled john, dead of a heart attack, with a Taser prong stuck in each testicle. Sawatski wondered if the john had paid extra.

  The banter was broken by the buzz of Sawatski’s cell phone. He flipped it open, expecting a tech from the scene. “You got my pictures yet?”

  “I’m more concerned with fine
luggage,” said The Voice. Sawatski had learned not to react when he received these calls. He also knew how to get those around him to provide a buffer of personal space.