by R. D. Cain
Bannerman noted that there were no security cameras as he jogged up the steps. He marched through the front double doors and found an unstaffed reception area behind security glass. He moved impatiently, noting two residents who stumbled into reception from a side door. Two older, brain-damaged-looking men with crazy eyes and the smell of cooking sherry on their breath. They laughed heartily as they waited for the electronic door to open, then plunged down the steps toward the unsuspecting public.
Bannerman turned to see a receptionist returning to the desk. She was overweight and looked tired. She asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m looking for Darius Miner, please.”
“You’re from a social agency?”
Bannerman considered whether to say yes, but he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to answer jargon-laced questions. “No, I’m an acquaintance from a long time ago. I just want to see how he’s making out.”
This made her look at him sideways, like it was the craziest thing she had ever heard.
She hit a button under the desk and the side door where the two drunks had come out buzzed and popped open. “Room 109, end of the hall. You don’t need to buzz out.”
“You don’t think I’ll stay long?”
“No. I don’t.”
Bannerman grabbed the door and pulled it open to a smell of stale sweat and urine. He made his way down the hall. It looked like a neglected old-age home, the kind the government would shut down if they had any sense of compassion. It was good to know that Darius had lived here for few years. Only people like him belonged here.
A male nurse was helping a young man get into a wheelchair; they both ignored him as he passed. The smell didn’t get better as he moved deeper into Darius’s lair. He was expecting to see something come hobbling out at him like an undead monster, a zombie from an ’80s horror movie hissing and lunging at him.
And like the heroes of the movies, he would pull the gun out and spray a hail of bullets at him, the villain’s flesh peeling and dropping away, until he made a head shot and put the thing down once and for all. Darius, the vampire that had taken the purity and innocence from Lindsay, her birth mom and god knew who else.
Bannerman didn’t knock on door 109. He pushed it open slowly, his right hand gripping the pistol plunged deep in his coat pocket. He began to doubt if he had racked the slide like they did in the movies to get a round in the chamber, but enjoyed the scenario in his mind of doing it slowly in front of Darius. Surely a man like him would know that the next thing Bannerman would do was blow his brains out.
He heard a slurred voice groan a question as he entered the room. Darius was sitting in a wheelchair, propped up to the window at the back of the room. He had a view of a brick wall and a sliver of a city park, where a few children were playing — poor, immigrant children, running around in circles, not knowing yet that their entire lives would be spent spinning tight circles unless they were able to stay away from men like Darius Miner.
There was no one else in the room. Bannerman came alongside Darius, not looking directly at him yet, but observing the state he was in. There was a permanent injection port in his neck and arms. He’d been in the wheelchair a long time: atrophied legs, an indwelling catheter, or piss drain.
Bannerman said, “Can you talk?”
Darius said, “I can talk.” His voice was husky and dry. “Who are you?”
Bannerman detected more strength than Darius wanted to let on. He turned to Darius. “Do you remember a woman named Tabitha Moreau?”
Darius froze, which is to say his eyes stopped moving as if trying to track the children.
“You hung her to death over the closet door in her apartment.”
Darius said, “I remember Tabitha.”
“You remember her daughter? Lindsay?”
When Darius turned his head toward Bannerman, he looked well enough. He wasn’t like a late-stage AIDS patient. He had a few good years left of this hell. “Yeah. I remember Lindsay.”
Bannerman said, “You raped her.”
“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t like that.”
It was a pathetic lie. It was like he was really saying, What are you going to do about it?
Bannerman reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out the gun for Darius to see. Holding it in one hand and lightly tracing a finger from his other hand along the barrel like a model on a TV game show. Look what beauty awaits you, Darius, if the price is right!
Bannerman was happy to see that he hadn’t racked the slide to charge the weapon. He did so slow and deliberately, right in Darius’ face, just as he had imagined.
He pointed the gun at Darius’s closest kneecap. “It’s a forty-cal. Let me know if it hurts as much as they say it does on TV.”
A dribble of sweat rolled down Darius’ face. He said again, “It wasn’t like that.”
“Bullshit.”
“I touched her, that’s all. When I saw I had a problem, I left.”
“But not before killing her mom.”
“I did her a favour by killing her druggie mom. Don’t kid yourself.”
Bannerman smiled, not believing that the man had the audacity to say such a thing, knowing he would die for it. “You didn’t think of maybe just calling Children’s Aid, the cops? Anyone?”
“They would have just thrown money at Tabitha and told her to straighten up. She would have spent it on drugs. She was going to die anyways, I just moved up the date. Got Lindsay out sooner.”
“And the molestation, that was just a parting gift?”
Darius said, “You’re right, you’re right. Just do it. Look at me. You’d be doing me a favour. Save me a few more years of living like this. In this place. I can smell the piss and shit, man — I’m not that far gone. I know the way they treat me and I know there ain’t nobody coming to help.”
Bannerman took a step closer and smiled. “You’re right, Darius. Superman is dead.” He pointed the gun at Darius’s head, the muzzle boring into his temple.
Darius closed his eyes and reclined in the chair. “When you came in here, I saw your reflection in the glass. Moving slow, graceful, and shit, your coat like a cape. I prayed that you were death coming for me. Thank you.”
Bannerman glanced at the piss jug tied to the bottom of the wheelchair. It was filling up. He could smell the man’s excitement at the prospect of being released from his hell. He was sick, a deviant trapped in his body, unable to kill himself.
Bannerman pressed the gun harder into him, wanting to leave an indentation in his skin. “You know, I came here with the specific intention of killing you. But now I see it would hurt you more to let you live.”
Darius opened his eyes, “No, wait.”
“No, you wait, you piece of shit.” Bannerman spoke in an intimate whisper. “You know, all you had to do was be your usual asshole self. That would have been enough. But no, you had to talk. You had to try to tell me what to do. You tried to control me, like you’ve tried to control everyone else in your pathetic fucking life. Well, fuck you, Darius. Enjoy your piss bag. Enjoy eating oatmeal three times a day, and enjoy your view of bricks. Once again, you’ve fucked yourself.”
Bannerman put the gun back in his pocket. He smiled at the distress he’d caused Darius. Crushing the man’s hopes of escape was more satisfying when he saw the tears pouring down both sides of his face and heard him begin to whimper, “No, no.”
The nurse heard his sobbing and appeared in the room. She looked at Bannerman with disdain, wondering what he’d done to upset a stone-cold piece of garbage like Darius Miner. She saw the tears on Miner’s face and the red mark the gun’s barrel had left in the side of his head. Confused, she put her hand on Miner’s shoulder, but he shoved her away. “Get your hands off me, you white bitch!”
Bannerman smiled as he strolled down the hall, listening to the man’s wailing.
31
Viktor ran ahead and pulled up the van; before long, they had all gathered at the open side door. Carscadden and Hopkins held each other tightly. Viktor was standing by Taylor, not too close to his personal space, as if knew the kid felt safer with people around. Then they heard the explosion: a low thud that even through the trees was enough to feel like a punch to the chest. Black smoke appeared above the treetops. Nastos knew Chavez had to be dead, but it didn’t feel like it was all over, not until Lindsay was back at home.
Carscadden dialed his phone. Nastos turned to Taylor. “I like the way you let him have it.”
“Thanks.” He kept his eyes down, and stole a glance at Hopkins.
Nastos reached out to touch his shoulder, feeling a twinge of guilt when the boy pulled away, so violently. “You know, they have a service at the hospital. There are nurses specially trained in helping people who —”
Taylor’s face turned into a snarl. He said something under his breath to Hopkins, then looked to the ground.
Hopkins eyed him. “Nothing happened to him in there. It was just a nightmare and it’s over.”
Taylor added, “That piece of shit is dead and I never want to hear about him or this place ever again.” He turned around, his back to Nastos and Carscadden.
Nastos retreated, seeing that Taylor wasn’t ready or was too embarrassed to talk about what had happened to him. “I know. That’s what I’m saying. People have bad dreams sometimes. So there are people who can help you.”
“I’m not talking to any nurses or doctors.”
The last think Taylor likely wanted was to open up to a woman, and feel more emasculated. Talking to another man might be worse.
“There’s a guy I went to for my daughter — she had nightmares too. Maybe you want to talk to him?” Nastos offered.
Taylor pressed close to Hopkins, who reached out and squeezed his hand.
“You’ll like this guy. Dr. Mills. He’d be good for you,” Nastos continued.
Hopkins was adamant. “He’s not going to hospital. He’s not telling the police anything.”
Nastos gave up. “That’s fine with me. Your nightmares are safe with us. No one here will ever discuss a thing, not even with each other.” Nastos saw that they were all in agreement. He added. “As far as the freak handcuffed to the wall in there, those were his cuffs; we just found them there.”
Taylor didn’t acknowledge him. He’d already started building a wall that he never wanted torn down.
Carscadden had finally gotten Dennehy on the phone. He pulled up a short time later, using the smoke from the fire as a guide. Byrne was in the passenger seat. Once they came to a stop, they heaved themselves out of their Chevy Impala and joined them at the van. Byrne had a swagger like a gunslinger, called in to save the day.
Dennehy pointed to the black smoke. “Now, who in the hell is going to explain that?” He marched up to Nastos, his chest out, finger pointing, emboldened when he saw Hopkins and Taylor — people for whom to perform.
Nastos said, “These two were held captive with Lindsay Bannerman. The guy dumped her at Colonel Danforth Park, to be found like the others.”
Dennehy asked, “Dead or alive?”
“Don’t know. Alive when she left here.”
“What guy?”
Hopkins said, “The dead guy you’re going to find in the house up there.”
“Dead?” Dennehy deflated in front of them. He slumped forward, his head sagging from left to right. Then he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Nastos. You leave a wake of bodies wherever you go.”
“Save us the histrionics, Dennehy. The guy was a serial killer. And for the record, when we left, he was doing just fine. We handcuffed him to a gas line so he couldn’t get away. No one was more surprised than me when the place blew up.”
Dennehy eyed Nastos, then Hopkins. He wasn’t satisfied, but Nastos didn’t care. “My friend Viktor Kalmakov is going to take these two back home. You need to call out the troops to search the park for Lindsay. That’s where I’m going right now.”
Dennehy said, “This is Durham Region, Nastos. The Durham cops are going to have to come here and deal with this mess. They’re gonna to want some answers. Our chief is going to want answers.” He pointed at Taylor and Hopkins, “these two are staying for statements.”
Hopkins said, “If you want a statement from me, you can wait for it. I’m going to have a shower and get something to eat.”
Viktor motioned for Taylor to get into the van, and he did. Hopkins wasn’t done with Dennehy. “And neither I nor Taylor will say a thing without our lawyer present.”
Carscadden positioned himself between Hopkins and Dennehy as she climbed into the van with Taylor. Viktor jumped in, closed the door behind them, then crawled through to the driver’s seat. It was already running and the heat was slowly warming the back.
Viktor waved at them, said something to Hopkins and Taylor, then put it in drive.
“This is the statement,” Carscadden said to Dennehy as the van pulled away. “Tara Hopkins and Taylor Burke were captured by this man.” He held out the driver’s licence for Chavez Vega Alvarez. “I’d check his immigration, outstanding warrants with the States, South America — the works. Hell, run him with Interpol while you’re at it. He beat them, starved them and emotionally tortured them. After we, umm, spoke with him, he told us that he had dumped Lindsay Bannerman in Colonel Danforth Park, near Forty-Three Division. He had told these two” — he pointed in the direction of Hopkins and Taylor in the departing van — “that she’s still alive.”
Byrne used his phone to call the fire department. Dennehy turned his back on Nastos and Carscadden and opened his phone. He called the Toronto Duty Inspector. “Inspector D’Arcy, ma’am. This is Dennehy from Homicide. I need a Public Order Unit search of Colonel Danforth Park in Forty-Three Division.” He snarled at Nastos and covered the phone. “This better not be bullshit.”
Nastos replied, “I just made your career, Dennehy — you’re welcome.”
32
By the time Nastos and Carscadden arrived at Colonel Danforth Park, there were street cops at the Lawrence Street bridge controlling access and the Public Order Unit officers were walking down the Lawson Road hill, fanning out for a line search. Chavez hadn’t been clear on where Lindsay was and the wooded park was long and winding, covering several acres. It would take hours to get all of the way down to Lake Ontario following the trail the way they had to search, looking behind every tree, in the river, on both sides of the banks. The east bank was a vertical wall at times, over a hundred feet up to Colonel Danforth Road.
Two cadaver dogs were running off leash, their handlers barely able to keep them in sight. Carscadden and Nastos followed behind Dennehy’s car as they drove down the Lawson hill to the police command post. “If she’s not here, Nastos, we’ll never find her.”
Nastos turned the radio off and dialed the heat down. “That’s why we’re going to find her. If she is alive, we phone the Bannermans right away so they can meet us at the hospital. If she’s dead, we’ll tell them in person.”
“Great.”
Nastos watched one of the cadaver dogs run out of the woods with part of a dead fish in its mouth. He shook his head — even police dogs were still dogs. The other ran under the small bridge, coming out the other side not long later. It was cold, maybe eight degrees Celsius, and windy with a setting sun. An exposed, injured person would not last long.
The Public Order Unit cops, who were more commonly noticed controlling crowds and protests at political events, were actually mandated for this type of search work, scouring fields and buildings for evidence or bodies. The search line was as many as forty cops, shoulder to shoulder, going down the east then west grass and parklands divided by the narrow, curved driveway.
The dogs had free rein; their only restrictio
n was to maintain a position in front of the blue line of police, so they could have a clean environment to search. If it had been winter, there might have been footprints, but in fall there were dried leaves and ravaged corpses of fish and raccoons that the coyotes and foxes had left behind to distract the dogs.
Carscadden’s phone rang. “Viktor, what’s up?”
“We’re at my place. Tara and Taylor are going to freshen up and I’ll fix something for them to eat.”
“Good. Don’t let the cops near them; they can’t force them to provide statements.”
Carscadden heard clanging, as if Viktor was pulling pots out of a cupboard. “I have an unlisted number. And ever since I was wrongly accused of murder and needed you to clear my good name, I find I get nervous around the police and forget to speak English.”
Carscadden smiled. The Russian mobster’s house was one of the most secure places in the city. “Well, look after my girl. I hope I’ll be there soon.”
“I’ll keep her with me tonight. She shouldn’t be alone. Buzz the gate when you get here. My man will be waiting.”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing, my friend.”
“What’s that?”
Viktor paused, like he was trying to figure out how to start. “Taylor. Well, it’s pretty clear what happened to him back there.”
“Yeah, he was raped.”
“He called his parents. I spoke to them briefly, and they have a lot of questions. Someone is going to have to tell them, but I feel that we are in the boy’s confidence. If I had had children, I think I would want to know what was going on so I could be of more support.”
Carscadden agreed. “But he’s eighteen. He needs time. Hopefully he opens up — until then I think we just have to do as he says. Hopefully he talks to Dr. Mills.”
“I suppose.”
