“Yes, I’ll tell them—just hold a minute.”
Klein lowered the phone and spoke to the roomful. “Your son Angelo is safe. He and a friend Peter are at the police station now.”
He returned to the phone call. “Have the parents of the other boy been contacted?”
Dana sat down by Tony again and held him tight.
After a few minutes, Klein ended the call and put the phone down, confirming to everyone, “Peter Baxter and Angelo are safe at the station.”
Dana sensed the communal sigh of relief. She looked around; her mother was now looking pale, but more composed. Carmella was still agitated.
“Will they bring them home?” Carmella asked.
“Ma’am, I was told that they’ll have to stay there for some time. They’re helping us sort out what has happened tonight.” Klein paused and then continued, “Now, I have to ask Mr Ferruccio and Mr Munro if they would come with us to the station as well, to help sort out the situation. I am truly sorry, gentlemen, ladies, but this has to be done. Constable Hunter here and I do extend our sincere sympathies to you all. If you will please excuse us … gentlemen?”
As the fathers left with the police, Dana realized that she had to take charge; both mothers were too distraught to act. She moved over to Gina, the older Ferruccio daughter.
“Gina, come help me make some warm drinks. We need to get some kind of comfort and warmth into them. Are you okay?”
Gina nodded as they went to the Ferruccio kitchen.
Dana looked back. “Tony,” she called, “could you help us too, please?” Dana felt empowered.
It had been a long, emotionally draining day. The apartment door closed behind Jane, and she slid the deadbolts across. As she crossed the floor, she took off her jacket and dropped it over a chair’s back. Constable Hunter was changing, for a few hours, she hoped, into plain Jane Hunter. She kicked off her boots.
By the time she had reached the bedroom, her pants were at half-mast. She stepped out of them, bending to toss them onto the bedside chair. As she unbuttoned her blouse, she glanced in the mirror. Yes, it did show. She had shed some tears as she drove home. It had been very hard to restrain herself at several times during the evening, but once off duty, well … The blouse slid off her shoulders.
She walked into the kitchen, reached up for a glass, and poured orange juice from the carton she took from the fridge. She opened the box on the counter and lifted out four crackers. She smiled to herself. What a diet for a working girl!
She carried the crackers and juice to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned on the television. She sat down on the couch, unhooked her bra, and relaxed, breathing deeply.
The commercial finished. The program restarted: a police car slid into the palm-tree-lined avenue. That image alternated with one of a convertible carrying two well-tanned men, obviously crooks, careening down San Francisco hills.
Jane pointed the remote. The channel changed. The jungle. Heavily armed soldiers in fatigues were stalking through the undergrowth. A blast, flames, sounds of a chopper.
She changed the channel. Conan O’Brien. Channel change, quick. Weather channel; floods in the States somewhere, ten years ago. Channel change. Old movie, gangsters in Chicago. Click. The screen went dark. Why bother? I don’t need any of that. What time is it anyway? Two-thirty a.m. Jeez, I’m on again at six tonight.
She finished her juice and crackers, and went into the bathroom. Through the partly open window, she heard a police siren. Wonder who that is?
Entering the bedroom, she dropped her bra and pantyhose to the floor and reached over for the nightshirt that Graham had given her. She slipped it over her head. She liked this shirt, especially since Graham had chosen it for her himself, without her prompting or input.
She lay on the bed, on top of the covers. The bedside lamp gave just enough light for now, as she went into her final relax-down phase. Usually, five minutes were enough. Then she would turn off the light. After another five minutes or so she would creep under the covers, and pretty soon she would be asleep.
She turned onto her side and looked at the bedside clock. The green digits stared back at her—04:30. No way could she drop off. The images would not go away.
The two mothers sat there, pale and distraught, their remaining children spread around the room, as she had left them, some five hours ago. Those two young teens, shiveringly drunk, hunched on the bench in the police station. But they had been able to tell their part of the story.
Apparently, the lad called Vincent had learned how to hot-wire a car to start it. Bryce was doing the driving. But the bad part about it all was that they had liquor with them.
At some point, the younger pair had decided to get out, and went their own way on foot. Another cruiser had picked them up by a park down on Otterbrook Road, drunk as coots. And the other two went on a joyride till they hit the ice on that bend.
And the fathers—the tragedy of it all, as each silently identified his dead son. Why, she thought, why does it have to go on like this?
Jane had done all the courses when she was on training. She’d handled drunks galore in the backstreets of downtown. She’d been on the early RIDE detachments. She’d been along on countless drunken domestic abuse calls. But this time it was different. Somehow, she couldn’t get those boys out of her mind.
Try thinking of other things. Graham, wonder if he got to Montreal okay? It’ll be nice to be together at Christmas. Be nice to go down to Windsor again; it’ll surely be warmer. Wonder if Mum and Dad will like Graham? He’s sure to get on with Dad, but Mum might not latch on to him so quickly.
But the image of that overturned car would not go away, and the half-empty bottle of scotch that she and Klein had found inside the car told the story so clearly.
Get out of bed. Walk about, do something. Like what? Read a book; watch TV. Have a drink. Can’t do that; it’ll wake me up.
She walked round the lounge twice, and sprawled out on the couch. Click: the screen came to life. An insect reared its head and scuttled into a burrow. The camera panned over the desert scene as a voice monotoned on. More insects—click. The rock music channel. No, not now. Click. This looks better: sailboats racing. No commentary? No, just music. She adjusted her head on the cushion. The sails in her mind filled with the wind, her eyes glazed, and at last she was asleep.
Dana sat close to Tony in the front, right-hand pew of the Funeral Home Chapel. To Tony’s right sat Mrs Ferruccio, then Mr Ferruccio and the other Ferruccio family members, all in their best dark suits and black dresses. Carmella, Gina, and little Roberta wore black net scarves on their heads. Behind them sat other Ferruccios and Callonis, Carmella’s family.
Dana glanced over to the other front pew, where her family sat, looking straight ahead. Dana and Tony would join them partway through the service.
She turned and looked behind. The chapel was nearly full, and she could see people still crowding in at the door. So many faces. She shuddered involuntarily. She felt Tony’s hand on hers. So many faces, so many people. And then everyone, as a wave, began to stand. Dana turned and stood too, as the two ministers entered.
Dana’s mother went quite regularly to the Anglican Church down on Otterbrook Road. Dana couldn’t remember when her father had last been, nor Bryce and Iain. She had been a few times with her mother, when she was younger.
Tony’s mother went to Mass at St James the Apostle quite often, but Dana didn’t think the rest of the Ferruccio family were regular attendees.
So, the two grieving families had decided that the proper thing to do was to ask the Anglican minister and the Catholic priest to conduct a short service for Bryce and Vincent in the Chapel.
Dana thought the first prayers, some of them sounding vaguely familiar and carried by the sonorous voice of the minister, set the right atmosphere. Then came the contrast of the higher-voiced priest as he spoke to them about losing a son, a brother. She sniffed and fumbled for a tissue.
The
priest and the minister stepped back. Dana and Tony stood, and, reaching forward over the front of the pew, each lifted up a wreath of flowers. They moved out into the open space, where the two black caskets rested. Gently, Tony laid his wreath on the right-hand casket, Vince’s, and bowed his head.
Dana placed hers on Bryce’s casket. She could hold back the tears no longer. Tony put his arm round her, and helped her back to the other pew. They sat down with the Munro family.
Caroline laid her hand on Dana’s. Their tear-filled eyes met. “Thank you,” mouthed Caroline.
Dana managed a glimmer of a smile in return.
Dana and Tony had agonized together for hours over the events of that terrible Friday night. They had thought long and hard about how they could do something together during this service.
In spite of this tragedy, and the immensity of the present situation, they were in love; they wanted to be together. They wanted, they needed, each other’s support. If Tony had sat with his family, and Dana with hers, they would have been separated. So at last, they had thought of the wreaths and the changeover, and had talked to the minister and the priest. It was agreed.
Dana had a nagging fear, and she knew Tony had too. That time just a few weeks ago, when they had come across Bryce and Vince, and Peter too, in the old brewery grounds, drinking—what if she and Tony had squealed on the boys? Would it have prevented all this—would it?
She and Tony were so caught up in their own secret trysts at the time, that perhaps they hadn’t realized the magnitude of what was happening. She remembered Tony saying he was worried about what the boys would get up to next as they left the trio in the brewery yard that night. Was there anything they could have done, should have done? Or was it already too late, even then?
Constable Jane Hunter had managed to squeeze into the Chapel at the last minute, and was wedged between two local residents of Brewster Gardens: Dwayne Hampden, a grey-haired fellow in his sixties, and David Adkins, a balding mid-forties guy, based on her brief interaction with them as she arrived. The service had now come to a close, and the families filed out into the private rooms.
Jane moved outside as the friends and neighbours began to disperse. She zipped up her uniform parka, pulled on her gloves, and moved toward the sidewalk. The funeral limousines were at the front, clouds of condensed exhaust vapours rising from them in the unusually cold air.
Jane watched as the Munro family members came out to their car. She saw Dana, helping her mother along the path.
Suddenly, Dana looked up and turned in Jane’s direction. There was recognition. Dana raised her hand, and mouthed, “Hi, thank you.”
Jane raised her hand in return. To her surprise, Dana came running over to her.
Dana was puffing in the cold air. “Ma’am,” she began, “could I meet with you? We need some help, guidance—badly.”
“Come on, Dana, we’re leaving,” came a shout from the limousine.
Jane, momentarily taken aback, pulled a business card from a top zippered pocket. “Er … here, Dana. Call me at this number, and we’ll arrange something—I hope I can help.”
“Thanks.” Dana gave a half-smile and turned. “Gotta go now.” Dana dashed back to her family.
With a downcast face, Jane turned abruptly, about to walk to her car.
“Nice young lady. You know the family, then?” came a voice in Jane’s ear. She stopped and looked up; Dwayne Hampden had spoken.
“Er—well, not really. I was one of the officers who broke the news to the families. Not an easy task.”
“I can imagine. You know, some of us here in the community are a bit concerned about the antics of some of the young folk,” Dwayne continued.
“Darn right,” another voice joined in. Jane saw that it was the other local she had met earlier, David Adkins.
“You see,” Dwayne said, “there’s this set of old brewery buildings between the old railroad track-bed and the far end of Brewster Gardens. They’ve been there for decades, and generations of kids have played in and around them. But just lately, people have noticed a few teenagers going in there, as if looking for trouble. One neighbour is sure he saw them lugging in a six-pack of beer one day.”
This struck a chord with Jane, and her mind went back to some of her training courses on youth issues. Right from the start of this tragedy, on that Friday, she had had a strange sense, a sense that she somehow would become involved in this whole affair; that this would be something more than a routine, underage drunken-driving tragedy. Somehow, she knew not how, these events were telling her something.
“Can anything be done about the old property?” asked Jane.
“I think the city should pull it down,” said David. “It’s an eyesore and a hazard.”
“Trouble is,” countered Dwayne, “if they do that, it will become prime building land, and the community doesn’t want more housing around here.”
“Thanks for telling me all this,” said Jane. “I’ll let my super know. We do have an on-going watch on youth activities around the city.”
- 2 -
It was two weeks after the tragic crash and the deaths of the two boys. Dave Adkins was strolling round Brewster Gardens with Brutus, his wife Barbara’s Malamute. Ahead, Dwayne Hampden appeared from the side of his house to tend his flowerbeds.
Dwayne looked up. “Oh hi, Dave. Did you get any more signatures for your brewery petition?”
“No, we didn’t. Barbara went round this afternoon, and saw Mrs Abraham and Jenny Lindsay; the Thompsons were out. I called at the Munros, but only the daughter, Dana, was home. Jill Benson said to come back when Keith was at home, though she understood our concern.
“I don’t know, Dwayne, people just don’t want to sign. Maybe we’ve gone about this the wrong way? But I don’t see why. Kids have been getting hurt or into trouble round those old buildings for years.
“Ann Baxter did tell me that her son had cut his hand badly the other week, on glass apparently, but that he wouldn’t say how—and he was one of the boys that survived the disaster. I’ve made it as clear as I can to my boy Cody that I don’t want him in there.
“It’s time the city did something. They oughta pull the place down and close it off, or put the land to some good use.”
“But Dave, that’s what’s bothering people. Most of them say that if the buildings were torn down, then it wouldn’t be long before some builder would move in and fill the place with townhouses or something worse.”
“Damned if we do and damned if we don’t. We only have six signed up, out of twenty households. It’s not enough. Damn it, we’ve gotta do something about that place before more kids get killed. Maybe even a proper gate at the entrance would be enough.”
“I don’t know, Dave,” said Dwayne, as his forehead wrinkled and his lips puckered. “I don’t know. If we could track down the owner of the place, we’d stand a better chance; somehow I doubt we could do it without his go-ahead—and anyway, why shouldn’t we get him to foot the bill for it all?”
“Well, I was thinking that if we all chipped in, the job would get done sooner, and we’d get a gate on the place that would do the trick.”
“David,” chuckled Dwayne, “you’re being a bit naïve. If there’s something in there to attract the kids, they’ll find a way in, gate or no gate. But, I grant you, a high gate is a good deterrent. Look, tell you what, I’ll call the city tomorrow and ask them to track down the owner for us.”
It was a raw December wind that whistled round the buildings on the midtown Ottawa side-street. Dried leaves scudded across the road, dying in eddies in corners, partly covering the patches of early snow.
After searching city records, writing letters, and waiting, Dave and Dwayne were keen to take this next step in their efforts to deal with the old brewery issue.
They quickly mounted the six steps of the building that had, in its day, been a well-to-do townhouse for some Ottawa valley landowner, or maybe an MP, but now sported an ubiquitous, engraved brass
plate at the side of the outer door: Simpson Stocker Wyatt Pimms—Barristers and Solicitors.
Dwayne grasped the large brass doorknob and eased into the vestibule; Dave followed quickly, huddling against the wind. He was surprised, given the weather, to find the inner door open, revealing a narrow hallway going back into the depths of the building.
On the right, parallel to the hallway, a grand staircase ascended, bannistered in rich, dark wood and covered in a luxuriant red and brown carpet.
To the left, Dave saw a reception room, with three austere chairs, a table mounted with a rack of small pigeonholes, a fireplace with an ornate mantel—clearly not used for many years—and, at her desk, a receptionist: pert, attractive, brunette, and paging Mr Stocker.
Dave and Dwayne stood at the entrance to the room. The young woman looked up, flashing a smile at them as she juggled a couple of phone calls, motioning to them to be seated. Dwayne sat; Dave remained standing, but moved into the room.
“Good morning, gentlemen, how may I help you?”
“We have an appointment with Mr Simpson; Hampden’s the name, and Adkins,” said Dwayne, his right hand motioning toward Dave.
“Oh, yes. Mr Simpson is still with another client at the moment, but he won’t be long. If you don’t mind waiting for a few moments?”
“Not at all,” Dwayne assured her.
Dave sat down, watching the receptionist as she busied herself with the two incoming lines, the intercom, and a keyboard. She looked up and, momentarily catching Dave’s eye, flashed another smile.
Cute, Dave thought, fascinated by the skill with which she handled the multi-tasking. He watched her closely. She looked up, caught his eye again, smiled coyly, and looked back at her screen.
The sound of voices coming down the staircase destroyed Dave’s dream. With his eyes still fixed on the receptionist, he half-heard some words of parting as the outside door opened and someone left.
A tall, heavily built man stood at the doorway of the reception room. Dave and Dwayne stood as the receptionist introduced them.
Angel in Blue Jeans Page 2
