Fleeting Visions

by Rene Natan

  Stevenson pondered the situation. He wouldn’t get anything out of Jocelyn. “Do you know that package contained two hundred thousand dollars of merchandise?”

  Jocelyn looked at him, flabbergasted, and exploded in a big laugh. “You mean I held two hundred thousand dollars in my hands and I dropped it?”

  “Yes. You did.”

  “Ah! No wonder you guys are so obsessed.” She threw her head back and laughed again. “I had two hundred grand in my hands! I can’t believe it!”

  “Yes, two hundred thousand dollars and a million troubles.”

  “Probably.” She paused. “What kind of merchandise?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Of course not. Anyhow, I can’t help you.”

  For a moment Stevenson didn’t know what to do. He could find an excuse to keep her at the station a little longer, but he didn’t think he’d get anything useful out of her.

  “You’re free to go,” he said at length, watching for any sign of relief.

  “Great. I hope you’ll find your precious package,” Jocelyn said and rose. With purposeful strides, she marched toward the door.

  It was imperative he had the last word. “I’ll be calling you,” he shouted after her.

  Jocelyn was almost out. She turned around and wagged her index finger at him. “Do so, but only if you aren’t married.”

  She’s pretty sure of herself, Stevenson thought, and for the first time in his life he regretted not being single.

  Primo and Lopes rushed into the conference room.

  “Well?” they asked together.

  “Zilch. She said she dropped the package.”

  “That’s a convenient excuse,” Primo said.

  “I know, but there’s nothing I can do. Besides, she’d noticed a police car. You didn’t hide very well.” He sighed.

  “We had to have the motor running, on and off. More on than off. It was freezing, and we stayed there for more than three hours. We parked in the farthest corner, but the parking lot wasn’t that big.”

  “I know. I’ve been there.”

  Stevenson took a pen from the penholder and flipped it between his fingers. “She saw a police car. So, if that was the agreed site for the drop-off, she’d have called it off and left without entering the store. Her story is believable.” He rose. “I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee. Send in the other witness,” he ordered Primo.

  He hoped to get more information out of Debby White, the cashier on duty at the drugstore. Debby White had resigned from her job the day after the storm, and had taken a vacation as well.

  When he returned to the conference room, he came upon the fortyish, slightly overweight Debby White. Mousy, with straight blondish hair, acne-scarred skin and a mouth too big for her face, she was dressed in denim jeans and a heavy, brown coat. To make her feel at ease, Stevenson asked her about her vacation in Florida, and spent a few minutes chatting about the wonderful amenities the Sunshine State offered. Finally, he invited Debby to take a seat.

  Debby sat on the edge of the chair in front of him, clearly worried.

  At this point Stevenson turned on his grave, professional tone. “Ms. White, we’re in the middle of an important investigation aimed at eradicating drug trafficking in the area. I wonder if you can help us.” He paused for effect. “Two weeks ago you were working at a drugstore in Strathroy. Until ten at night. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. There was a terrible storm.”

  “Right. A woman came in late to buy some meds. Do you remember her?”

  “Yes. She told me she had a hard time driving in from London.”

  “Did you see anybody with her?”

  “No, she came in alone.”

  “I see. Think hard, Ms. White. Did you see anybody waiting for her outside?”

  “No.”

  “Had you seen anybody else outside?”

  “Not a soul. It was a terrible night.”

  Stevenson nodded. He couldn’t avoid getting comment after comment about the weather. It had been an exceptional blizzard, with four feet of snow, strong winds, and heavy drifting.

  “Did the woman stay long in your shop? Looking for items?”

  “Heck, no! She zipped in, went to the counter where we keep the meds, and quickly turned around. She also bought a snowbrush. She was in a hurry.”

  “Did she use the phone while she was inside?”

  “No. As I said, she was in a hurry.”

  “Right, right.” The woman was smarter than she looked. “Didn’t you notice or hear a car going by the entrance?” She should have noticed the police car racing after the courier.

  “No.” She wiggled in her chair nervously.

  “When did you leave?”

  “I closed up as soon as the lady left. I had to drive to Parkhill.”

  “Do you park in the front or back of the store?”

  “The back.”

  “You called the shop’s owner the day after and gave him notice. What was the reason?”

  “That night I had a hard time getting home. Couldn’t see a thing. They closed Highway 81 soon after I went through it.” She avoided looking at him. “It wasn’t worth it to drive that far—not with this kind of winter.”

  “But you left for a vacation right after. The following day, you were on the road to Florida.”

  Her face reddened with anger. “So? Am I not free to take off?”

  “The roads were still pretty bad.”

  “Yes.” Her tone was deeply resentful, now. “But the sun was out. It was a beautiful day, and I thought I deserved a break.”

  Stevenson closed his eyes. Everybody was going south, and he was confined in this dark building. He sighed. The woman didn’t look at ease, but that didn’t make her guilty. If she’d closed the store after Jocelyn was out the door, she might not have seen any man giving her a package. And she parked at the rear, so she wouldn’t have had a chance to see a package lying on the ground. A hapless case. He reopened his eyes.

  “You can go, Ms. White. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  The woman was out of sight in a jiffy.

  As before, Primo and Lopes approached Stevenson.

  “Got something?” Lopes asked.

  Stevenson shook his head. “Botched operation,” he said in a low voice. As soon as his constables left Stevenson let out a sigh. He wanted to wrap up his work at the Drugs Section with a flourish before taking over more specific duties with the Criminal Intelligence Section; instead he’d failed. “Botched operation,” he repeated to himself. “That is what I’ll have to write in my final report, in the most diplomatic way I can think of.”

  Three

  Intermittent tremors shook Louis’ body, although he’d raised the thermostat to the maximum allowed: twenty-five degrees. He was in a house on Adelaide Street, part of a multiplex with a couple feet of grass at the front and a small back yard. It was a cheap but familiar place, since he’d lived here with his uncle since he could remember. Louis wrapped himself tightly in the thin blanket and adjusted the pillow under his head. He hoped to fall asleep, but the cot was uncomfortable and bent like a hammock. He was sore all over, and the cigar burn on his left ear combined with the open wound inflicted by Camilo’s shoe heel on his neck caused excruciating pain. He’d bled for two full days, and his pillow was caked with dry blood. He sobbed. There was no way out for him. Carlos, the uncle who’d played father to him since he was a two-year-old, had passed away six months ago. Soon after, his uncle’s business partner had come to see him, claiming Carlos owed him fifteen thousand dollars. Louis would have to work for him until the debt was paid off.

  With a wardrobe full of new clothes, Louis was taken to a fancy cottage out of town. At first, he was too surprised to catch on, but when he saw a king-sized bed with colorful condoms on one nightstand, he almost fainted.

  For three months, he’d been the object of pleasure for men who often left him bleeding and in pain.

  One day, one of the brothe
l’s clients tried to pay him directly. It was then he discovered each of his so-called services was worth three hundred dollars to his pimp, Camilo Estorbar. After a mental calculation, he reached the conclusion his uncle’s debt had been largely repaid. However, he was afraid of confrontations. He lived in anguish for days, as the resolve to get out of the prostitution ring became stronger and stronger. Finally, when Camilo came to have sex with him, he begged him to give him a break; he was feeling sick, very sick, he said, and wanted to go to the hospital and be checked out. Camilo, a ruthless man in business, was the greatest coward when it came to health issues, his own or his clients’. He dispensed him of his services on two conditions: that he wouldn’t go to the hospital, and that he’d deliver packages for his business.

  Louis, glad to see a light at the end of the tunnel, agreed. He needed to gain time and gather a bit of money; then he’d take off and go as far as he could—the Yukon or the Pacific coast would do. He had it all figured out.

  Because of that terrible night, everything had changed. During the dreadful storm that hit the London region, he’d given the package to the wrong person. The rendezvous was set for nine o’clock at night, outside a drugstore in Strathroy. Dressed in worn-out jeans with an old black leather coat and sneakers, he’d waited for an hour, crouched behind the mailbox to hide from the patrol car stationed on the other side of the parking lot. He’d waited and waited, his hands and feet getting colder and colder. When the woman arrived, the snowfall had intensified so much the patrol car had disappeared from sight. The moment the woman opened the door to exit the store, he’d come out from his hiding place and dropped the package into her hands.

  The patrol car had given chase, but he had his escape well-planned. He rounded the store corner, jumped over the fence at the back, and reached for his old motorbike. Half frozen, he’d shaken the snow off the saddle and ridden to safety.

  Now…who was the woman who’d come to the rendezvous? Could he ever find her? That would get him out of trouble, at least out of major trouble. But how could he go into action if he could hardly move? He rose and walked to the kitchen, careful not to stumble on the floor’s uneven tiles. He got a glass of water from the sink tap and drained it. If he could at least have some painkillers…they would help.

  Disheartened, he went back to lie on his cot, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t fall asleep. The pain kept him awake so he rose again and looked out the window. The sun shimmered; he could try to walk to a drugstore. He grabbed his black coat, opened the door and headed out.

  The pharmacist shook his head as he examined Louis’ ear. “Painkillers won’t do a thing for you. There’s a deep wound that bleeds and drips pus. The ear is infected. You have abrasions on your neck. You should go to the emergency.”

  Louis paid for the medication and was ready to leave, when a man in a white outfit approached him. “Let me take you to the hospital; I have my car at the back. It’s just a ten-minute-drive.”

  Louis agreed, faintly.

  At the emergency entrance, the trial nurse said, “Health card, please.” One look at Louis, and she grabbed the phone to impart orders. In no time, a stretcher was wheeled in, and two nurses helped Louis lie on it. They whisked the stretcher along the corridor, as a few more orders were dispatched through the loudspeakers.

  Louis relaxed. Whatever had to happen, so be it.

  When Louis woke up, he found himself in a nice room with a large window, wrapped in clean sheets, with an IV attached to the back of his hand. He felt weak and drowsy, but the pain was bearable.

  A nurse neared his bed. “I’m Nicole. Feeling better?” she asked.

  Louis nodded. “Where am I?”

  “University Hospital.” She smiled at him. “You’re in good hands.” She sat in the only chair available. “What happened to you? You were all bruised up and your ear—well, the doctors think they patched it up, but it was pretty bad. You could have lost your hearing, you know. And you’re such a young fellow. Why didn’t you come to the hospital right away?”

  Louis didn’t want to say much. “I thought it wasn’t serious.”

  “By the way, what happened to you?”

  “Fell down the stairs,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at her. “There was ice on the steps.”

  Nicole gave him a sympathetic look. “Lots of icy spots still around. It’s nice weather, but cold as hell.” She rose. “Want something to eat?”

  Louis nodded.

  ***

  Stevenson was on the phone with Harry Wengler, a doctor with the University Hospital he’d met in the course of a previous investigation. “Not much I can do, Harry. Let me recap. The guy was in bad shape when you took him in; he’s had nightmares; he had bruises all over and lesions in his rectum. He claimed he had a bad fall.” Stevenson listened a bit more, tapping the pen in his hand on the desk. “I understand the burn cannot have been caused by the fall, and you’re concerned, but he’s eighteen. He’s an adult; I can’t call in Children’s Aid. My hands are tied.” The doctor on the other side didn’t give up. “Okay, I’ll pay him a friendly visit.” He deposited the phone in its cradle.

  “What was all that about?” Constable Lopes, who was standing close by, asked.

  “Doctor Harry Wengler of UH called. He was on duty when this young guy—eighteen last week—walked into the hospital, bleeding. Looked like he’d been beaten and probably badly abused sexually. He denies everything and justifies the wounds with a bad fall from an outdoor staircase.”

  “I thought they were forbidden by law.”

  “Only if they’re the only means of access.”

  “What about the nightmares?”

  “Somebody was assaulting him. He mentioned a whorehouse of some sorts.”

  “That would tie in with his internal lesions,” Lopes said.

  “Maybe. But the guy was under sedation for three days and fed intravenously,” Stevenson said. “They gave him medications for the infection. He could have hallucinated.” Stevenson paused, twirling a pencil between his fingers. “Anything urgent at the moment?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Lopes said.

  “Great. I’ll go see this guy then.”

  As he drove along Dundas Street and turned right on Richmond, Gordon Stevenson thought about his life and the sad turn it had taken. His wife had slipped into depression after the sixth miscarriage. For a while the doctors thought she’d come to terms with her situation, but in the ensuing five years, Marta’s condition had changed for the worse. Last year she’d hardly gone out on her own, and her rare outings in the daytime relied on the support of his friends and parents. Marta didn’t have any family of her own close to town. Of late, she rarely cooked supper. She wasn’t interested in anything, and Gordon doubted the medications she took were of much help. She’d become more passive every day.

  It had been a sad situation that all the success he had in his career couldn’t compensate.

  From Richmond Street he turned left, and passed through the two campus columns that bore the inscription “Veritas et Utilitas”—The University of Western Ontario’s motto. The traffic, pedestrian and motorized, was intense, but Gordon finally made it to the entrance of The University Hospital, often referred to as UH. One of the many health care facilities of the city, UH provided in- and out-patient care, and housed several units dedicated to medical research.

  Gordon flashed his identification to the officer at the main entrance and parked his car nearby. He quickened his steps inside. He knew where Louis Saura was and went directly to his room.

  A man in his sixties stood near Louis’ bed, checking the bottom of a set of papers. Their tops curved outwards making it easy to see that they were government forms.

  “Gordon Stevenson of the London Police Service,” he said to get the attention of the man and Louis.

  “Pleased to meet you. My name is Peter, I’m one of the hospital volunteers.” He waved the sheets in his hands. “I helped this young man fill out the requ
est for a subsidy. He has no family, no work, and the doctors think he should be resting for at least a couple of weeks. I’ll take this form to the office downtown. The Ontario Disability Support Program may be able to help out.”

  “I assumed you took down this young man’s data,” Stevenson said. “Would you mind making a photocopy and leaving it at the nurse station?”

  “Sure enough,” said Peter. He turned to address Louis directly. “I’ll let you know how things turned out.” He waved at Gordon and left.

  “Hi, Louis,” Gordon said, and sat in the chair close to the headrest. “I see you’ve already got somebody to help you so maybe my coming here wasn’t necessary.” As he spoke, Gordon looked at the young man. Louis was blond with hazel eyes, delicate facial features, and the scared look of a deer in the headlights. He was surprised how emaciated Louis was, thin to the bones; he looked much younger than his eighteen years. He could understand why Dr. Wengler had insisted that the authorities take a look at the situation.

  “So, Louis, you live by yourself?” Louis nodded. “No family?”

  “I had an uncle, but he passed away some months ago.”

  “Are you going to school?”

  Louis hesitated, then said, “I went until my uncle died.”

  “Which school?”

  “Catholic Central, grade twelve.”

  “I see. Why did you quit?”

  “No money. I had to work.”

  “Oh, where do you work?”

  “Here and there.”

  A nurse came in with a tray. “Supper time,” she said cheerfully. She deposited the tray on the over-the-bed-table and wheeled it in front of Louis. “I got you two extra slices of ham since I know how much you like it.” She stroked Louis’ bare arm. “Are you a relative?” she asked Gordon.

  “No. Just a concerned citizen. I was told there was a young man here who could use some help.”

  “He surely can,” the nurse said, and strode off.

  Louis pushed away the tray with the food.

  “So, Louis, what else can you tell me about yourself?”