Death's Shadow

by Jon Wells

  The place started getting busier. After eating, Brenda chatted with friends; Art and Neil played pool at the tables. Stripes and solids. Art didn’t go easy on his son, and Neil didn’t want him to; he wanted to see if he could beat his dad. Art was a good player, chided Neil about it. “Oh, come on Neil, you could have made that shot … let me show you how it’s done.”

  Cheryl brought Art a bottle of Export, then a Labatt 50.

  There were two men playing at a table next to theirs. They had never seen them before. In the close quarters of the pool table area, the four of them on occasion took turns taking shots so as not to get in the way of the other, avoid accidentally poking one another with a pool cue. Etiquette. The two young men were Kyro Sparks and Cory McLeod.

  Cory and Kyro finished their game, sat back at their own table, where they had ordered two pounds of wings and a pitcher of beer. The two of them kept jawing at each other, arguing. Nagging each other about their situations: the fact that Kyro couldn’t find work in Hamilton and that Cory was on the run for an assault charge in Kitchener; the fact that neither was making any money so were staying at Katrina and Sherri’s apartment around the corner. Both guys were stretched, throwing around cash they didn’t have.

  Brenda hit the dance floor with a girlfriend, just after 10:00 p.m. “Me and Bobby McGee” had just started playing. Brenda loved that song. Art was a good dancer and enjoyed it, but this time he walked past Brenda, did a mock jig with her, and then begged off. He wasn’t up for more. He was tired, from work, and now the food, drinks.

  A friend ordered another pitcher for Art and Brenda, which they had yet to start. Art was weary but in a great mood. Up at the bar, he chatted with a buddy named Randy, and Cheryl. Meanwhile, Neil said goodbye to his mom on the dance floor. He was heading home to meet Jordan and bring him back to O’Grady’s. He stopped at the bar. Art was doing a shot of Forty Creek Whisky, his favourite.

  “Going to get Jordan,” Neil said. And he was out the door.

  Brenda was still dancing; Art deciding that now — not earlier, and not later, but now — was the time to go to use the bathroom. He walked from the bar.

  Cory was still going at it with Kyro, arguing, needling. Kyro was getting hot. Who was going to start making some cash? “How long can we expect the chicks to fucking put up with us?” Cory said. Tempers were rising. Cory was a hustler, always had been; talking is what he did. Kyro wasn’t like that. He was angry.

  In seconds Art reached the back of the bar, perhaps walking past Cory and Kyro’s table, opened the door that separated the bar and dance floor area from a short, narrow back hallway. The door closed, he opened the bathroom door on his left, and entered.

  Kyro had had enough of Cory. He got up from their table, walked to the back. There was just one urinal in the bathroom. Art was there using it. Kyro entered the small bathroom and stood behind Art. They were together.

  Kyro told Art to hurry up, said he needed to use the urinal. Art turned, but there was barely space to maneuver. Genial as always, and having had several drinks, Art put his hand on Kyro’s shoulder, and suggested Kyro and Cory stop the fighting in the bar. Then he turned to open the door to leave.

  What was it? The hand on the shoulder, getting into Kyro’s space? Was it possible that Art, using his vernacular from work when he broke up an argument, called him “brother”? What was it that lit the short fuse inside Kyro Sparks that at once set off all the cruelty, or self-hatred, or insecurity, or whatever diseased sense of himself as one badass son of a bitch that dwelled inside?

  Kyro was on Art as he exited, grabbing hold of him in the narrow hallway. The door to the bar area was still shut. It was cramped; there was nowhere for Art to go. Either Kyro had to stop himself from what he had set in motion, or Art had to fight his way out.

  “I’m not looking for any trouble,” Art said.

  Now Cory McLeod opened the door to the hallway, coming back to see what was taking Kyro so long. He saw some guy facing off with Kyro. That was what was happening, right? This guy was facing off against him? Cory knew that look in Kyro’s face: he was hot. Cory just knew. It was on. You attacked one of them; you attacked them both. It was a rule. Anger popped inside Cory like a balloon bursting, then, unthinking, he rushed forward, punching, his vilest instincts exploding. Kyro was hitting Art, too; both were feeding off each other, raging, Art tried to get away, battle back, but there was nowhere to go. His hand grabbed the chain around Cory’s neck, ripping it off. Art fell. He was down on the carpeted floor now — unable to stand up with the drinks, the fatigue, the two frenzied young men beating on him, unleashing a cruel cowardice that Art would never imagine could exist in a person. The fists. The boots. The shoes. Over and over, kicking and stomping. It was sickening. And over.

  The door to the back hallway opened. It was a customer coming back from the bar. He saw a man slumped on the floor, on his knees, buttocks in the air, face on the floor, and the side of his head leaning against the wall. He saw two men over Art — and a third young man, holding open a door leading to a back alley. He saw one of the two men kick Art.

  “Could you not do that, not kick him again?” the customer asked.

  “Do you want some of this?” the man with metallic wire in his mouth asked.

  “No.”

  The man kicked Art again, in the head, then they all moved toward the customer, and the door — the two men by the body, and the third who had held the back door. Kyro Sparks pushed the customer aside, and they were gone, out through the bar, the front door, walking, not running. They looked directly at the waitress, Cheryl, as they left. A couple of customers ran out the front door, saw the three of them starting to run along Upper James Street and around a corner. Another customer ran up to the bar.

  “Art’s being kicked by three guys,” he said. Cheryl ran to the back hallway.

  “Art!” she screamed.

  He did not respond. She wiped blood off his face. Art was breathing raspy, slow breaths. She felt his pulse. A faint one. Michelle, the bartender, called 911. It was 10:32 p.m.

  “We need an ambulance to 592 Upper James Street in Hamilton. He’s in the back hallway. We need an ambulance very quick.”

  She hung up. The 911 dispatch called the bar back.

  “Are there any weapons involved?” dispatch asked.

  “No. It was three black guys; they just left our bar. He’s bleeding from the eyes — those three black guys beat the fuck out of him.”

  Michelle hurried toward Brenda on the dance floor. Brenda stopped dancing, moved to meet her; she could tell something was wrong.

  “Art’s been beat up. He’s in the hallway. The ambulance is on the way.”

  Brenda ran to the back. Expected to find him there holding a bloody nose or sporting a black eye. She was not prepared to see him slumped on the floor.

  “Art! Art!” She grabbed him, shouting his name, slapping the ground to get a reaction like she was taught when she updated her St. John Ambulance CPR training. She put her hand under his body, starting at the head, working down, looking for blood.

  That’s when uniform police officer Ian Gouthro appeared and helped her perform CPR. At 10:41 p.m. the paramedics came in the back door. More police arrived on the scene. Brenda was losing it; she was terrified. One of the officers physically lifted her away from Art to give the paramedics room, carrying her into the bar area. The music had stopped, the lights were on. Everyone was wondering what had happened. Art? In a fight? Brenda was numb. And angry. And helpless. What could she do?

  She stood on a chair, shouting now. “If anyone finds these guys out there, bring them to my garage. I want a crack at them before the police.”

  Struggling to see what was happening, she noticed the defibrillator in the hallway near Art. But the paramedics were not using it. They were not using it to try to jump-start his heart, get him breathing. She knew that meant the worst. The boys. She had to get in touch with their sons. Neil and Jordan were a few blocks away at the house,
getting ready to join their mom and dad at O’Grady’s.

  The phone rang. Bev picked up. She could tell that Brenda was calling from her cell. Unusual for her to do that, especially late in the evening like that. Bev didn’t know where Brenda was; she did know Art and Brenda had gone out for dinner that night.

  “Can you do something for me?” Brenda asked.

  “What? What’s the matter?” Bev said.

  “Art’s been beaten up.”

  “What?”

  “Art’s been beaten up and he’s not breathing.”

  “So what the hell are you doing? Get him to the hospital!”

  Brenda said that Art had been taken to the hospital. She needed Bev to go and bring the boys down to Hamilton General. Bev got off the phone and told her husband, Fred.

  “Art? It can’t be Art,” he said. “Brenda must be mistaken. He must just be unconscious.”

  “Something is really wrong. This is bad.”

  A police cruiser drove Brenda from O’Grady’s to the hospital. Aunt Bev and Uncle Fred arrived at the Rozendal’s house just before 11:00 p.m. Jordan had just finished showering, getting ready to head out to the roadhouse. Neil was watching TV, waiting for his brother. Bev told them their dad was hurt, and at the hospital. They had to get down there and meet their mom.

  Art had taught Neil to look for a smile or a laugh in any situation. In recent years they had lost several members of the extended family, most elderly, and Art always talked of the good times, made them laugh to help deal with it. At that moment Neil didn’t want to believe the worst.

  “What,” Neil cracked, “did he trip and hit his head on the pool table or something?”

  Bev said little. They rode to the hospital in silence. Fred parked, Bev hurried to the ER. She wanted to just make eye contact first. That’s all she needed; she and Brenda were so close, the eyes would tell her all she needed to know. Bev spotted her. Brenda shook her head. Bev knew.

  Paramedics had intubated Art at the bar, put a tube down his throat to assist breathing, given him epinephrine and atropine to try and restart the heart. It was no use. Art died at O’Grady’s, before he arrived at the hospital, but paramedics do not officially declare death in the field. That would be up to the ER doctor.

  At the General, Dr. John Opie was told by paramedics that Art had been VSA — vital signs absent — for about 40 minutes. His heart was asystole — no electric activity. Dr. Opie examined Art’s pupils, felt his femoral artery in the groin for signs of a pulse. Nothing. He determined that resuscitation efforts would be futile. Art was pronounced dead at 11:14 p.m.

  Brenda was not permitted to see Art’s body, not when a homicide investigation surrounding his death had just begun. The body was evidence. The family gathered in the quiet room in the emergency department. How could Brenda tell Neil and Jordan? She wanted to start by telling them how proud Art was of them, use past-tense words, cushion the news in any way she could.

  “You know, your dad loved you very much,” Brenda began.

  Before Brenda finished breaking the news, Neil asked what had happened to his dad.

  An ER staffer in the room turned and said, “He’s dead.”

  At that moment Jordan opened the door and bolted from the room and out of the ER, the others following him. He ran outside, down Barton Street, escaping, trying to run from the news. Someone chased him down. Neil stayed back, outside the hospital, sat on a cement wall, and wept.

  Art’s mother, Frances, arrived at the hospital and so did Art’s sister, Debbie. A police officer took Brenda and Neil to Central Station to meet homicide Detective Mike Maloney. Bev and the others took a cab.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  “The police station on King William,” Bev said. “And if any of your cabbies picked up anyone in the Upper James and Brucedale area tonight, the police would really like to know about it. Because my brother-in-law was beaten to death tonight.”

  The cabbie dropped them off at the station and waived the fare. He sent flowers to the funeral. The card was simply signed, “The taxi cab driver.”

  After several hours at Central Station, a police officer drove Brenda and Neil home, where they rejoined family members gathered at the house. At 6:00 a.m., the city dark and cold, Brenda, exhausted and wired, picked up the phone. She had calls to make.

  — 7 —

  A Gruesome Discovery

  Saturday morning the phone rang on the nightstand beside Bill Murray’s bed. He was supposed to come to Art and Brenda’s place for dinner that night.

  “Brenda, what’s up?” he said, barely awake.

  She felt numb. It was all so surreal. Brenda spoke evenly.

  “You’re not going to believe what’s happened,” she began.

  Bill was thinking that maybe Art had been called in to work, and that dinner was off. But why call him at six in the morning?

  “Art’s been beaten up and he died.”

  “Brenda, where is your head?” Bill said, unable to compute the words. She repeated it. And now he believed. Almost at that exact moment, his kids, aged 14 and 10, walked in the bedroom awakened by the phone. The kids loved Art. Bill didn’t know what to say to them. What else could he say, but relay the news? It shook the kids up bad.

  Bill moped around all day, cried on and off, mostly just unable to make sense of it. His friendship with Art was the kind that if one of them had some idea, for a car, anything, one would instantly call the other. For the longest time after he heard the news, a thought would cross Bill’s mind, and he’d actually reach for the phone but had to stop himself. I can’t call him. Art is gone.

  Art’s brother Darren was now living up north, in Ironbridge. That morning Darren heard the knock at his front door and answered in his housecoat. It was his mom, standing in the doorway with a panicked look on her face.

  “There’s been an accident,” she said.

  “What?”

  Thoughts rushed through Darren’s mind — perhaps his stepfather, Neil, had had another heart attack. Esther kept looking at Darren, opening her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t say the words.

  Darren was almost shouting now. “What — just tell me!”

  “Art was killed last night.”

  “What — how?”

  “He was beaten up in a bar.”

  Darren turned from her, barely made it to the bathroom and vomited, then he cried, hard. He showered, still crying, the news ripping his heart, torturing his head. It all made no sense. Beaten up? In a bar? Art could never be in a fight, never bring anything onto himself. Darren? Sure. He knew that he could get himself into a situation. No question about it. Not Art. Ever. A bar fight? How was it possible? How could anyone ever want to hurt Art? It should have been me, Darren thought. Should have been me in that bar. Not that he wanted to die, but his brother meant so much to others — had a wife, kids, all these people who love him. Art’s sister, Debbie, came north and drove Darren, Neil, and Esther back to Hamilton. All those years before, when he was still a little boy, Darren had gone on that long drive south to Hamilton to see Art. He was doing it again, to attend the funeral.

  On Saturday morning, just after 10:30 a.m., the body was wheeled from the sealed morgue fridge in the basement of Hamilton General Hospital into the autopsy room. At 10:40 a.m. forensic pathologist Dr. John Fernandes began the post-mortem examination. Fernandes had performed more than 1,200 forensic autopsies in his career, 90 of them homicides. Also in the room was Kevin Stanley, a detective representing the homicide investigation. Stanley opened his white casebook and made notes. Fernandes spoke aloud as he proceeded, making observations that would appear in his final report: “Male, 43 years old. Height: five feet, 9.7 inches. Weight: 198 lb. Body habitus: Lean, muscular. Scalp & facial hair: Brown-red. Brown-red moustache. Extremities: Hands covered by dry brown paper bags. Hands stained with grease in many of the creases reflective of industrial-type staining of the hands ... Gold tone ring with a single colourless stone on the left fourth fi
nger.”

  Kevin Stanley had attended many autopsies in the past. With this one he strained to keep his professional instincts tuned to the job at hand. He was an emotional guy, known to wear his heart on his sleeve. He couldn’t help but think of his own family: he had been married to the same woman for years; was a father of two boys — just like Art Rozendal. He could see himself being in the same situation as Art. Out for dinner with the family, and then it just happens: your life is extinguished just like that. Senseless.

  Fernandes ordered X-rays, noted injuries around the head, neck, and chest, swelling and bruising around both eyes. The left cheek was swollen and discoloured. Scratches on the left eyebrow. Right ear extensively bruised. Bruising around the left rib cage measuring 10 x 12 centimetres. His attention was drawn to marks on the skin on Art’s back. There appeared to be a circular pattern to them. He knew that studying trauma patterns on tissue can be instructive about the cause of death.

  At 1:40 p.m. he halted the autopsy. He wanted to see the marks more clearly. Allowing time to pass would allow the bruising on the back to develop more clearly. In the meantime Fernandes wanted to visit the scene of the beating, look for anything that could have produced that kind of pattern on Art Rozendal’s back. While Stanley stood guard at the morgue, another officer drove the forensic pathologist up to O’Grady’s.

  Forensic detectives Gary Zwicker and Annette Huys were there, and they walked Fernandes through the bar. He briefly examined the hallway where Art had died. Doorknob? Obstruction of some kind protruding from the wall? There was nothing in that hallway that could have made such a pattern on the back. The doctor returned to the hospital. At 4:20 p.m. the body was sealed again in the morgue freezer.