Among the Departed

by Vicki Delany

  “Yes,” Smith replied. She studied the woman’s face. Her pupils were normal sized, her face clear, although her make up was a bit smudged. The scent of pot hung over her. “It’s two o’clock. Are you having a party?”

  “Yup. It’s my birthday.”

  Smith doubted the young woman was the owner of this house. “Are your parents inside?”

  “They’ve gone to a hotel for the evening, so I could have my party.”

  Big mistake that, Smith thought. The music ended abruptly. The rest of the crowd had stopped dancing and were standing watching, feet shifting. She saw a couple of faces she recognized, but just from around town: these people kept themselves out of trouble.

  Smith asked the young woman for her name and she gave it, full of profuse apologies. “It’s getting a bit hot in the house, you see. So much cooler outside after the rain.”

  “Nevertheless you’ll have to take it back inside,” Smith said.

  “Okay. Sorry, Officer. We’ll be quiet.”

  “Make sure you are.”

  “Uh, you won’t tell my parents, will you?”

  “No. Not unless I have to come back here tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good night.”

  The woman ran across the lawn, waving her arms, shooing her friends back inside.

  The radio on Smith’s shoulder squawked.

  “Five-one?”

  “Five-one. Finished at Elm Street. They promise no further trouble.”

  “Can you take a call at 324 Redwood Street? Neighbors report they hear shouts and a woman screaming.”

  “Ten-four.”

  She jumped back into the car and punched buttons to bring up the lights and sirens, did a U-turn in the middle of the road and headed back up the hill.

  Redwood Street was quite a contrast to Elm. Older houses, many falling into disrepair. Most rented out or divided into apartments. Weed-choked gardens, broken fences, old furniture piled on front porches to rot in the rain and snow.

  Half-way down the block a man stepped forward and lifted a hand to flag her down.

  She pulled up and sat in the car for a moment. A couple of blocks further down this street she’d killed a man. She didn’t think about it much. Not any more. She took a breath, radioed that she’d arrived, and got out of the car.

  “It’s gone quiet,” the man said, pointing to a dilapidated house behind him. “but a couple of minutes ago a woman was screaming and a man yelling.”

  “Do you know the people who live here?”

  “No. I’m Gerry Mann,” he waved his hand to his left. “My wife and I live next door. These people moved in a week or so ago. The house is a rental and it has a high turnover.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check on it.” An old car, more rust than metal, squatted in the gravel and weed driveway.

  She touched her radio and read out the license plate, adding, “Can you send me some backup, Ingrid?”

  “Four-two has an ETA of about five minutes.”

  She started up the driveway. The front door opened and a man came out. He was big, with a bald head, broad shoulders, and slim hips, dressed in jeans and a dirty white T-shirt tucked into a wide belt. He shut the door behind him and walked toward her, hands stuffed into his pockets. “What seems to be the problem here, Constable?” He looked into her face, and then his eyes darted away.

  “We’ve had a report of a disturbance. Can you take your hands out of your pockets please?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking you to.”

  One at a time, he lifted his hands. “We were watching a movie, the girlfriend and me. A horror movie. She loves horror but it really scares her, you know. So she screamed at the scary bits.” He grinned at her. No warmth was in his smile and his eyes were dark. He shot a look at the watching neighbor. It was not friendly. “I’ll tell her to keep it down next time.”

  He took a step toward Smith. She could smell beer and rancid sweat.

  “Stay where you are, please,” she said.

  He stopped walking and planted his legs firmly in the path. His eyes moved, looking at everything but her. The short hairs at the back of her neck tingled, and she placed her hand on the baton on her belt. “What’s your name?”

  “Jim.”

  “Jim what?”

  “Jim Ferguson.”

  “Is that your car, Mr. Ferguson?”

  “Yup.”

  The radio crackled. The vehicle was owned by James Ferguson. No outstanding warrants, but one conviction and jail time for assault causing bodily harm.

  “I’d like a word with your girlfriend.”

  “She’s gone to bed.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like a word with her. Will you please ask her to come outside and talk to me, otherwise I’ll have to go in and check on her.”

  “Okay, okay. Not a problem.” His arms were at his sides but his fists were clenched. His shoulders were tight and a vein bulged in his neck.

  Where the hell is that backup?

  He moved without making a sound.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  His hands hit Smith’s chest, hard, and she tumbled backwards. Instinctively, she dropped her arms and rolled on her butt to break her fall. Her lower back hit the ground but she kept her head up and her feet planted on the ground. Then he was down, dropping to his knees, looming over her. He lifted a fist, his black eyes were clouded with rage and spittle rained down on her face.

  This is not training. This is not Dawn Solway taking me through the moves. No plush mats, no laughter.

  No second tries.

  She lifted her right leg and pushed against his chest, holding him back, knowing the leg would soon give way. She hooked it around his hip. He fell toward her. She stretched out her other leg and, with a shout to give her strength, brought them both in. Her bottom leg chopped his knee out from under him and the upper leg knocked him to one side.

  She heard a siren in the distance and someone yelling. She leapt to her feet, blood pounding in her head. He was on his back. “Fucking bitch,” he roared. He shook his head and started to move.

  She couldn’t let him get up. He had muscle and power.

  All she had was speed, agility, and training.

  She dropped down, placed her right knee in his sternum and held the other leg wide for balance. Pressing all her weight into her right knee, she grabbed his arm and pulled it toward her. Her other arm gripped the back of his head and jerked it in. Unable to breathe, in considerable pain, the fight abandoned him. She felt the moment he surrendered.

  She released his head, grabbed his hand and got her feet, rolling him onto his stomach as she moved.

  By the time Dave Evans reached her Jim Ferguson was face down in the grass, hands cuffed behind his back.

  “Nice,” Evans said, somewhat grudgingly.

  “That was fabulous.” The neighbor clapped his hands.

  “Call an ambulance,” Smith said. Her heart was pounding, and now that it was all over she was terrified. Her knees felt like rubber. Her voice quavered. “Get buddy into a car. I have to check the house.”

  “I’ll take the house.”

  “No. I have to do it.” If she went back to the car, she was afraid she’d crawl in and never leave.

  “Don’t go inside without me,” Evans said. “I’ll be right back. He jerked Jim Ferguson to his feet. The fight had been knocked out of the man, and he let himself be led away, head down, face red.

  Evans stuffed him into the back of the car and joined Smith on the steps.

  They stood on either side of the door, and Smith reached for the knob. She turned it shouting, “Police.”

  The door swung open. Smith went in first. Evans followed.

  The room
was a mess of mismatched furniture and cardboard boxes. It smelled of burned food and spilled beer. The cheap coffee table was covered with brown bottles, overflowing ashtrays, an empty pizza box. Smith kicked a bottle out of the way and it rolled under the couch. A woman sat against the far wall, legs outstretched. She cradled one arm to her chest. Her left eye was open, the right swollen shut. Blood leaked from her smashed nose and a vicious cut on the side of her forehead. Her face was a mess of blood, snot, and sweat. Smith dropped to her knees beside the woman, as Evans repeated the call for an ambulance.

  “Hi,” the woman said through broken teeth and bloody, swollen lips. “Hurts.”

  “Help’s coming. Don’t try to move.”

  “Jim?”

  “He’s in custody.”

  “New boyfriend. Mistake, eh?”

  “Welcome to the party,” Evans said. Smith got to her feet and let the paramedics do their job.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “I’m thinking of staying on for a while.”

  “You can’t do that. You’ve got appointments. Leung tomorrow. Should be the last time, we’ve got enough to make our move.”

  “Call them and tell them I’m sick. Maybe not, they’ll think I’ve got AIDS or something yucky. Tell them I had to rush to my dying mother’s bedside. That’s a good one, play the pity card and they might leave a big tip next time.”

  “Nicole, you’re not running out on me are you? I thought you hated your mother and that town.”

  “I’m going to say a few more days, Joey. They’re pretty sure it’s my dad they’ve found and I want to be here when they tell us for sure. But, because I don’t want my stay here to be a total waste of time, I have a plan.”

  She eyed herself in the bedroom mirror. Tiny red sticker hearts were stuck to the glass. If she had to hang around her mother’s house, where the TV blared all afternoon and evening, she’d go insane.

  “What kind of plan?”

  “There’s a guy here. Nice-looking, a prominent, respectable citizen. His wife’s loaded. I did some checking on the Internet and she’s a model, moves in the big leagues, at least what passes for big leagues in Canada. Owns two art galleries, which means she’s got to be concerned about her image.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Are you nuts? We don’t mess with the cops.”

  “Hear me out.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Small-town cop, small-town gossip. Rich wife. He won’t wanna sully his image, or get the wife pissed off at him.”

  “No. For one thing, maybe she keeps him on a short leash. You don’t know if he has access to the sort of money that’ll make it worth our while. Plus, you’re not set up there. What you gonna do, fuck him in your mother’s house?”

  Nicole looked around her bedroom. Now that would be fun. While Ricky Martin on the wall watched. She’d moan loud enough for her mother to hear in the room across the hall.

  This house could use some action.

  “You need cameras, remember,” Joey went on. “Out of sight. Remotely operated. Your mother isn’t likely to let me into your bedroom to install the equipment.”

  “If I’m not in there, she won’t care. Say you’re fixing a window or something.”

  “This is a bad idea. It’s not going to happen.”

  “Can’t I have some fun for once? It’s not often I get to do it with a guy I can stand to touch.”

  “I’m warning you, Nicole. I won’t have any part of it, and if you go freelance and you’re busted, that’ll be the end of our relationship.”

  “Oh, pooh.” She stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “No. Like I said, I’m staying at least another week.” Wouldn’t hurt to make sure Joey remembered this was a partnership. Sometimes he started acting as though he were the boss.

  Never forget which one of them was doing the real work.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Winters paid a call on the priest at Sacred Heart. Father O’Malley was in his office, surrounded by piles of papers. The man was dressed in a blue track suit and well-worn running shoes, but the office might have come out of a chapter in Dickens. Heavy red wallpaper tearing along the edges, scarred and battered desk, overflowing bookcase, faded armchair covered with cigarette burns. No computer, no fax, no printer. A black telephone with a heavy receiver and a rotary dial squatted on the desk, the only nod to modernity, albeit 1950s-era modernity, in the room.

  The priest stood up and came around the desk to shake hands. He gestured toward his clothes. “Pardon the attire. I’ve come from the tennis court and haven’t had time to change.”

  “I appreciate you seeing me, Father.” Winters said.

  “You’ve caught me just in time. I’m moving out next month. Retirement. I’ve been at this parish for almost thirty years. I’m sure my superiors have left me alone because they think this is a provincial backwater, but I’ve been glad of it.”

  “You were here when Brian Nowak disappeared?”

  “Yes. I hear he’s been found. What’s left of him, they say.”

  “Positive identification hasn’t been made yet, but it’s close enough to reopen the investigation.”

  “Marjorie hasn’t wanted to see me for many years,” the priest said. “Nevertheless, I’ll go around and offer what help I can.”

  Winters asked the old priest what he remembered about the Nowak family and learned nothing new. Brian Nowak was an upstanding member of the community, a good family man, good Catholic. His daughter, Nicky, was a lovely young woman, polite and respectful, a good athlete, if memory served. The boy, what was his name? Something with a y in it. Ryan. No Kyle. Kyle was a handful. Rude, sullen, rarely attended Mass, never confession. But no worse than many other boys of that age.

  Winters asked about women. Any hint of affairs with women in the congregation?

  “Most definitely not. The idea is preposterous. Brian was faithful to his wife and a good father to his children.”

  “After Nowak’s disappearance, I gather times were difficult for the family.”

  The priest shook his head. “Hard. I did what I could, Sergeant Winters, but I’m sorry to say I failed. I called in regularly to check if they needed anything. I organized men from the congregation to help with yard work or maintenance that needed doing. The parish women took meals, groceries sometimes because we knew Marjorie had been left without financial support. She had family, a couple of siblings I believe, but they didn’t seem to be able to help her.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t want to ask.”

  “I suspect that has something to do with it. She didn’t want my help, our help, either. I tried to explain to her about the purpose of the church community. How we all come together when one of our members needs us, and I knew that she and Brian would have done the same if others needed help. It’s not charity. She didn’t see it that way. A couple of months after Brian’s disappearance, several of the ladies made plans to attend a weekend church retreat. They invited Marjorie to accompany them, arranged for someone to look after her children, offered to pay her expenses. Her son, Kyle, shut the door in their faces.

  “Marjorie’s anger was a terrible thing to see. Anger at God for taking her husband, resentment of everyone else. She was viciously rude to people who only tried to help, angry at me for interfering. I should have tried harder. The boy was difficult even before his father disappeared, but the girl needed our help. Marjorie stopped coming to Mass and removed Nicky from all of her church activities. I heard she’d quit school sports teams and wasn’t allowed to take a summer job assisting at a children’s camp she’d been offered. I’m ashamed to say, Sergeant, I let it go. Marjorie became more and more reclusive, and she forced her children to be reclusive with her. S
he was angry at God, and I could understand that. I prayed she would someday find it in her heart to forgive God and return to church. Nicky quit school as soon as she turned sixteen and left town.” He shook his head. “Another lost soul.”

  Winters left after wishing Father O’Malley well in his retirement. He got the feeling the old man wasn’t looking forward to it.

  He hadn’t learned anything, hadn’t really expected to.

  Everyone insisted that Brian Nowak was a “good family man”. They said the words almost by rote, as if they were expected to do so.

  Or was John Winters just too cynical? Maybe it was time for him to follow Father O’Malley out to pasture.

  ***

  Detective Ray Lopez, the only other member of the General Investigative Section, was at his desk when Winters came in. Winters glanced over Lopez’s shoulder at his computer screen.

  “Hard at work?” he asked.

  Lopez pointed proudly to the picture displayed. “Cup winners.” It was a girls’ soccer team. Shiny ponytails, big smiles, scuffed knees, filthy shoes. Winters recognized Lopez’s youngest daughter Becky front and center.

  “Congratulations.”

  Lopez’s chest puffed up, just a little. “Once I’ve finished reliving my moment of glory as father of the winning-goal scorer, I’ll get back to work. We finally gave in and let Becky have a puppy. I’m thinking that might not have been my best idea.”

  He moved the mouse and the picture went away. “Guess who’s back in town?” A smile touched the corners of Lopez’s mouth.

  “I probably don’t want to know, but you’ll tell me anyway.”

  “Ronnie Kilpatrick.”

  “Why are you looking so pleased at that? Guy’s a bottom feeder. I knew he’d be getting out soon, but foolishly hoped he’d find someplace else to go.”

  Lopez pointed to the computer. “He let all his buddies on Facebook know he’s back. He’s at his mom’s house and interested in doing, quote, business.”

  Winters laughed. “You’re one of his Facebook friends?”