by Brent Pilkey
“This is a waste of time,” he told himself, not for the first time. “If there’s any evidence it’s up in the apartment where the fall started. Not down here where it ended.”
The police tape with its stern POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS stretched across the north side of the apartment building and took up a good chunk of the parking lot. Connor had to hand it to whoever on day shift had taped off the scene: he had certainly gone for big is better. The supposed crime scene went the length of the building from the front doors to the west end and sprawled across an easy fifty feet of parking lot, the plastic tape looped around trees and light poles, sagging in the heat.
Connor would have gone smaller; the only things of interest down here were the dark blotches left behind on the sidewalk when the body had been hauled away.
Probably had to use a spatula. Connor sipped on his iced coffee. Seven floors wasn’t all that high, but it was most certainly high enough when landing on concrete. Besides, it isn’t the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop at the end.
Why they were wasting all this time on a simple suicide was beyond him. And a crack whore to boot. So what if some neighbour thought he might have heard an argument just before the girl went splat.
“Probably jumped ’cause her AC quit.” Connor took another sip of his drink.
Only four more hours before he was relieved at the shift’s midway point. “Fuuuuck me,” he groaned. Why did he leave 53? If he had been guarding a scene up there, there would have at least been some scenery.
“Scenery at the scene,” he chuckled, congratulating himself on his wit. As far as Connor could tell, the attractive people lived in 53, the average ones filled out the rest of the city and the butt-ugly ones lived in 51. No wonder the division was called Toronto’s toilet.
“And here comes one now.”
A local was strolling over to the cop car on bow-legged limbs. Connor estimated his age somewhere between a bad-looking fifty and a good-looking ninety.
Keep going, keep going, Connor chanted silently, but the man had that fixed look in his eyes that all cops learned to loathe, the “I have a theory” look, the look of vast knowledge accumulated via hours of watching csi. Sure enough, the man stopped beside Connor’s window.
Connor considered not rolling down the window but figured the old fart would just stand there until he had an opportunity to solve the crime. Sighing, Connor lowered the window.
“Help you, sir?” he asked, purposely stressing the lack of enthusiasm. Get the hint, go away.
“What happened here, officer?” The man’s voice was a gravelly mix of beer and cigarettes.
Keeping his tone flat, Connor simply said, “Homicide.”
“Homicide. Hm.” The man surveyed the scene with a critical, knowing eye. “So,” he asked. “Anyone get hurt?”
“No, ma’am,” Jack patiently explained for the fifth time, shifting the phone to his other ear. “I understand the store delivered your new fridge with the door hinged on the wrong side but that’s not a police matter.”
He stared wistfully past the police station’s front desk as the woman on the line insisted, yet again, that having a defective appliance forced upon her was indeed a police matter. A matter of utter urgency.
Jack sighed. If he sat up straight in his chair and craned his neck, he could peer down the short flight of steps leading to the front doors and catch a small glimpse of daylight.
Only another four hours to go. Fuck me.
A shadow fell across Jack’s desk. He looked up at a cop who was vaguely familiar and had an amused grin on his face.
“Ma’am, I have to go,” Jack interrupted, cutting off the woman’s rambling tirade. “All I can say is that in the future don’t let the delivery men leave without first inspecting whatever it is they’re delivering. Call the store and complain to them.” He hung up and let his head droop tiredly, pausing to enjoy the blessed silence.
“Don’t you just love dealing with the public?”
“Is there a full moon tonight? It feels like I’m drowning in nuts today.” Jack sighed again and leaned back in his chair, gesturing at the phone. “Last month she called 911 because her toilet was clogged. Unfortunately, the idiot copper who attended made the mistake of unclogging it instead of getting her to call the superintendent and now she calls all the time.” Jack squinted up at the cop. “It wasn’t you, was it? If it was, I’m giving her your cell phone number.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d root around in some dirty toilet?” The cop laughed, professing his innocence with his hands splayed across his chest. He extended a hand. “You’re Warren, right? Connor Lee, nice to meet you.” They shook and Connor propped a hip on Jack’s desk.
Connor looked to be about Jack’s age, pushing the big 3-0, with a trim build and wavy black hair that was just long enough to get him in trouble if he ran across the wrong sergeant. He had an infectious smile and a slight Asian cast to his tanned features that Jack figured his wife would describe as “prettily handsome.”
“You just transferred in, didn’t you?” Jack had seen him around the station last week on day shift but had never had the opportunity to introduce himself.
Connor bobbed his head. “Yup. Came in from 53. Thought I was going to spend most of today guarding that stupid jumper scene but they closed it up early.”
“Lucky you. What brought you to our fair lands?” 51 was notorious as the Service’s penalty box and other divisions frequently used it as a dumping ground for their problem officers. The irony was, Jack had yet to meet a copper sent to 51 against his or her will who didn’t end up loving it in the city’s smallest yet busiest division.
“Just needed a change of scenery,” Connor explained rather vaguely.
Dumped in the penalty box, you mean. Jack could relate.
“So, when are they going to let you back on the road?”
“Fucked if I know,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I’ve been riding this desk since the end of March. The SIU is being its usually thorough and slow-moving self.”
But things could have been a lot worse. He could have been suspended, going stir-crazy at home while the Special Investigations Unit tried to decide whether to charge him with murder for throwing Randall Kayne off a bridge. Well, only technically speaking. Was it Jack’s fault the boarding on the bridge gave way when he threw Kayne against it?
I’m sure they think so. Now they just have to find a way to prove it.
Randall Kayne had been a crackhead maniac running around the division carving big Ks in people’s foreheads with a piece of slate. He wanted to prove he was the baddest fucker in town and thought slicing up a cop would cement his rep. Unfortunately for Kayne, he ended up splattered all over the Rosedale Valley Road. Since then, Jack had been riding a desk, waiting to see if he was going to jail or not.
Stress? Juuuuust a little bit.
“They’ve probably got it in for you ever since they couldn’t do you for shooting that guy in your house.”
“Who knows? I’d just like to go a year without having them in my life.”
Connor laughed. “Well, it’ll be good to have the Reaper back out on the road.”
Did I hear that right? “The what?”
“That’s what they’re calling you.”
“Who’s calling me what?”
“The Reaper,” Connor repeated. “The assholes on the streets are calling you that ’cause everyone who goes up against you ends up dead.”
“Oh, great.” The criminals, like their badge-wearing counterparts, loved nicknames. Again like cops, some handles were given in honour, some in disrespect. Jack wasn’t sure which one this was. “Let’s see if we can keep that from the SIU, shall we?”
A timid voice spoke up from the front counter. “Excuse me, I need some help.”
A bespectacled man barely tall enough to see ov
er the counter was peering pathetically at the officers.
Jack made to get up but Connor waved him back to his seat. “I’ve got this.” He walked briskly to the counter. “How can I help you, sir?”
Connor was standing off to the side, so Jack was able to see the little man’s eyes darting about nervously. Jack was reminded of a squirrel twitching at the side of a road as it tried to find the courage to plunge into traffic. Behind the glasses, dark, heavy bags sagged below the man’s eyes. His hair was a rumpled mess and even though Jack couldn’t see the man’s hands, he was sure they were anxiously knotting themselves together.
Jack’s curiosity was piqued and he joined Connor.
“How can I help you, sir?” Connor repeated.
The man checked behind himself then leaned in to whisper, “Is it safe to talk here?”
Connor nodded seriously. “Absolutely. We sweep for bugs every day.”
The man looked at Connor, confusion clear on his face. “I don’t mind bugs. I have them in my apartment. But bugs aren’t the problem,” he assured the officers as both of them instinctively shifted back, putting a bit more space between them and this decidedly odd walk-in.
“I’m glad you’re happy with the bugs, sir,” Connor told him. “So what’s the problem, then?”
Another glance over the shoulder, then, “I’ve been cursed.”
“Cursed?” Connor echoed.
“As in someone’s put a curse on you?” Jack asked, trying to clarify.
“Exactly. Exactly that,” the man confirmed, yet there was a hesitant expression on his face, as if he had confessed this before and his plea for help had been rejected.
Well, that’s a new one.
“Are you sure it’s a curse and not a hex?” Connor wanted to know.
A struggle of emotions ran across the man’s features. Elated relief at being believed and simple puzzlement. Bafflement won out. “What’s the difference?”
“It’s a matter of severity, really,” Connor explained patiently. “A curse is much stronger than a hex and therefore much more difficult to cast. A curse requires a very talented and powerful practitioner of black magic and they’re incredibly expensive. Hexes, on the other hand, are much simpler and cheaper. It’s like the difference between the common cold and lung cancer. My guess is that you’ve been hexed, not cursed.”
“How can I be sure?” the small man inquired breathlessly, eyes fixated on his newest saviour.
Jack was staring as well, awed by Connor’s seriousness.
“Well, I’m not feeling a cursed emanation off you and anyone who’s been cursed, it hangs off them like a neon sign.”
Jack surreptitiously slid a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.
But Connor wasn’t finished. “Has anyone taken some of your blood lately? And not just a little bit with a needle. I mean like draining a bucketful from you.”
“No, never.”
“Do you get a pain behind your eyes when you pee?”
This time the giggle couldn’t be contained and Jack had to turn away.
Peeing obviously didn’t give the man a headache as Connor announced, “Then you’re in luck, my friend. You have a hex, not a curse.”
“How do I get rid of it?” A very serious question.
“You need to find someone who practices white magic and they can break the hex in no time.”
“Can you do it?” The question was asked hopefully.
“Oh, no, not me. I’m not a practitioner. I just have some experience in the field.”
Jack bit down on the inside of his lips to keep from laughing.
And still, Connor wasn’t done. “But if you head over to the Church and Wellesley area and ask around, I’m sure you’ll find someone who can help you out.”
“Thank you!” From the sound of it, the man all but flew out of the station.
Jack wiped a tear from his eye. “You know a lot about magic, do you?”
“Not a fucking thing,” Connor admitted cheerfully. “I may be new to 51, but I know where Gaytown is. Hey, if you can’t have fun with the nuts, what’s the use of being a cop?”
He sat up in bed, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight. The ac unit chugged asthmatically in the window, sucking electricity but doing little for the heat in the bedroom. He scrubbed his face and winced, the knuckles of his left hand protesting the movement.
“Son of a bitch,” he swore as he inspected the hand. The knuckles weren’t bruised but when compared to his other hand, they were slightly swollen. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated. “Should’ve slept with an ice pack on it.”
He remembered little of last night. He could recall stopping for the whore and parking in the alley. After that, his recollection became fuzzy, blurred by a haze of red. How badly had he beaten her? Judging from the tenderness of his hand, pretty bad, but it didn’t matter. He’d only given her what she deserved, what they all deserved.
“Lying, useless whores. If not for them, my . . .” He hesitated, forcing his thoughts back into place. “My sister would still be alive,” he finished.
Other than his hand — and it was nothing a few Tylenol with codeine couldn’t fix — he was feeling pretty good. A decent sleep could do wonders. Yeah, he felt a little groggy from the pills but after a night like yesterday he needed the drugs to keep the dreams away. And he always dreamed after . . .
After what?
“After losing my cool, that’s all.” He swung his legs out of bed and stretched, luxuriating in the crack of his spine. “Besides, it wasn’t my fault. If Sherry hadn’t —” He stopped again, his arms held out like he was accepting applause. Or waiting to be crucified.
If Sherry hadn’t what?
If you leave me, I’ll tell!
He clamped his eyes shut. “It was her fault, her fault, her fault,” he intoned, a mantra to protect him from the memories. “If she’d just left me alone. I tried to tell her it wouldn’t work, couldn’t work, but she just kept pushing.
“Fuck this,” he declared. He jumped to his feet and headed for the bathroom. He inspected his reflection approvingly. True, his cheeks were looking somewhat sunken but that was to be expected if he kept his body-fat level low. He clenched his teeth, liking his heavy, strong jawline. That was good. Twisting, he examined his profile, fingering the bones of his cheeks and brow. No problem there. Even the scratches near his one eye were fading. The whore hadn’t raked him as deeply as he feared.
“Looking good.”
He stepped back from the mirror and flexed his arms. He had to lean side to side in the cramped bathroom to view each arm. His biceps knotted up dramatically, looking like hardballs implanted under the layer of skin.
Satisfied, he selected a vial and new syringe from his dwindling supply. Almost time to restock. Using a nail file, he scored the glass around the vial’s thin neck then snapped the top off. He dipped the needle into the thick, gold-tinged fluid and patiently drew it into the syringe.
He shook out his arm to loosen the shoulder muscles then positioned the needle over the thickest part of his deltoid. Damn, he hated this part. He knew guys who could jam a needle in themselves as easily as clicking a pen, but he never could.
You’d think it’d get easier after all this time.
He averted his eyes as he began to exert a slow, building pressure on the needle. There was a moment’s resistance then a quick ripping sensation as the tip jabbed through the skin. He sank the needle in until its mounting butted up against his flesh. He depressed the plunger and imagined — he knew this was all in his head but, damn, how he loved it — new strength and vigour coursing through his muscles.
Once it was empty, he withdrew the needle. Always easier coming out than going in. He capped the syringe and stored it with the other used ones to be properly disposed of later. The vial went into the garbage.
The phone rang impatiently, demanding attention.
“Can’t you be quiet for just a few minutes?” Jack pleaded. Anyone who thought working the front desk at a police station was an easy go had never been part of the inside crew at 51 in the summer. Besides handling the phones and any complaints that walked in the front door — it seemed everyone and his family had decided it was a nice day for a stroll to the cop shop — Jack had also been helping out in the booking hall and print room due to the high numbers of arrests coming in. Drunks, crackheads, drunks, dealers and more crackheads, drunks, the occasional wife beater and the usual assortment of criminal low-lifes had poured in through the booking hall in a seemingly endless flood. And still more drunks. It was summertime in the shithole of the city and business was up.
Jack answered the phone. “51 Division, Constable Warren.”
“Dude, you sound like shit.”
“Nice to talk to you, too, fuckhead,” Jack said with a smile.
Manny laughed. “I’ve been listening to 51 and it sounds like it’s going nuts, man.”
“And that’s just inside the station,” Jack confirmed. “How you doing, Manny? Or did you just call to rub in the fact that you actually have time to make a personal call?”
“Hey, man, we move at a much slower yet meticulous pace up here at Ident.”
“It’s ‘we,’ is it? You’re one of them now?”
“Dude, it’s awesome up here!”
Not quite six months ago, B platoon had lost its long-time leader to retirement and a six-figure position at a bank’s fraud department. Rourke had been an easygoing staff sergeant who always looked after his officers and when he pulled the plug, the shift had lost a good friend. And in return, they had received Staff Sergeant Greene, a colossal prick with an equally offensive handlebar moustache. Waxed, of course. It reminded Jack of Dustin Hoffman in Hook.
