Rage: The Reckoning

by Christopher C. Page

  By springtime, he’d be out on Mounts Bay, blasting around at almost one hundred miles per hour on the 38 foot Cigarette boat, slowing down whenever he pleased, perhaps dropping anchor from time to time, just long enough to go below and hammer a shot into his ‘squeeze’. He’d been giving it to the station dispatcher, Janet, for months now, despite the fact that he was married and she knew it. Any broad like that probably wouldn’t ask where he got the scratch for a speedboat. His wife, on the other hand, would be all over him like stink on shit.

  And the boat was just the tip of the iceberg. If he continued to make enough money on the side like he was, within five or ten years he’d leave them all behind and head for Costa Rica. There, he’d get himself some little brown skinned piece of ass and spend his days relaxing in the sun and sipping margaritas.

  Until then, he’d just have to suffer through.

  Fifteen

  It came as no surprise to John that he and Doug Green were both assigned to escort the OPP’s lead investigator assigned to the case, Sarah Cannon, to the home of the victim. The time he’d spent trying to explain his situation to Captain McLeary had obviously been time wasted. No matter what the man said to his face, he was going to continue pushing John in the direction of total involvement in the investigation. The realization hit him the instant he had walked into McLeary’s office that morning and found the Captain discussing the open investigation with the mayor and Foster Harrington. They were civilians, and in John’s mind, McLeary should have known better.

  “I want you to start with Mr. and Mrs. Dushku, make the introduction and then see what you can learn on the down low,” McLeary said, not even able to make eye contact with him. And then, if there had been any doubt of what exactly he was asking, he made it crystal clear before Cannon was shown into the Captain’s office, “Whatever she knows, we want to know.”

  The decision was made to have the detective ride with John and Doug in a marked patrol car rather than arriving separately or jointly in the big SUV with the OPP shield emblazoned on the sides. Every employee of the 62nd precinct was already experiencing a heightened sense of celebrity outside of the norm and crowds were forming around the OPP vehicle wherever it came to a stop. This was McLeary’s idea of keeping a low profile. Who was he kidding? A person had been killed in their sleepy little town and residents were expecting results on par with the movies and novels that entertained them. None of them had a clue how these things happened in the real world. Three hundred pages, or forty-four minutes, that’s all it took to solve these cases in a novel or on television. Many civilians failed to realize that the films and episodic television series that distracted them from their lives were just entertainment. In reality, murders went unsolved all the time. And the ones that were solved were generally done by conventional means, not by fancy gadgets or smooth talking detectives in sunglasses. Nonetheless, residents were expecting Cannon to deliver the killer to justice, either producing him or her for trial and conviction, or to simply kill them outright and produce the body after the fact.

  While they rode to the Dushku residence John saw Cannon checking him out from the back seat in the rear view mirror. So far, everything with her had been simple one-word answers and he could feel her resentment over his presence boring into his head like a drill bit every time their eyes met. If it had been just the two of them, John would have gladly looked her in the eye and asked her not to tell him a thing about the case. Unfortunately his new partner was cursed with the affliction of undying loyalty. It made him a good cop, a good person in general, but it also made him someone who might have trouble keeping a secret. If John didn’t act as if he was actively working this case, enough to make Green believe it, the young cop by his very nature would have no choice but to express his opinion to his co-workers and that wouldn’t make John very popular with the town, or with McLeary.

  In order to have any hope of a normal life in Ratcliff he and his son had to fit in and, so far, neither of them was off to a good start.

  They arrived at the Dushku family home five minutes earlier than intended and Doug was half way out of the front passenger’s side seat when Cannon stopped him. He looked to John right away, waiting for confirmation from his partner rather than blindly following an outsider. His stock went up a few points in John’s book and he gave him a simple nod to assure him that the woman in the back seat was in fact calling the shots.

  “Before we go in,” she said from the back seat, “I appreciate you both coming in with me, your department has been a big help to this investigation already . . . ”

  John suppressed a smile. The remark was a hundred times more for Doug than is was for him.

  “I’ll give you guys a few minutes for small talk,” she went on, “after that, when I start in with my questions, I’m going to need you both to step off.”

  “Whoa, that’s not what Captain McLeary said . . . ” Green began.

  “Relax,” John said to his partner while watching Cannon’s reaction in the rearview. “Unofficially, the Ratcliff PD is going to appear to solve this case in the eyes of the residents and the local media. That way, we save face with the locals and the mayor still has a snowball’s chance in hell at re-election time. It’s window dressing, Doug. Big picture, this is the OPP’s case. If they get the guy who did this, they’ll get all the credit. If they don’t, the mayor can say it’s all their fault and that we were shut out of the investigation. Either way, they go back to their lives, and we go back to ours.”

  John caught a small smile, more of a grin really, in the rearview. She was impressed, but wasn’t about to say so. “Okay, Columbo, it’s nine fifty-eight, let’s go.”

  He followed Doug up the narrow walkway to the concrete steps leading up to the front door of the small bungalow with Cannon lingering behind. A small aluminum awning painted in alternating slabs of green and white protected them from the mist as the trio gathered themselves at the door with a large crucifix woven in twine hung from the center. At exactly ten o’clock, Cannon’s people would simultaneously knock on five different doors; the Dushku’s, the bindery supervisor’s, and three of the people reported to be friend’s of the victim, leaving no chance for anyone to warn anyone else that the police were coming.

  The woman who opened the door to them looked a little like a throwback to the frontier days. She wore a checkered apron over a blue housedress and a pair of open heeled slippers and her hair was pure white, tied into an impossibly tight bun that seemed to stretch the crow-footed corners of her eyes. She looked up at Doug towering over her before shifting her ancient blue eyes to John and Sarah.

  “What do you want?”

  John suppressed the urge to comment on the ridiculous nature of the question, being that both he and Doug were both prominently dressed in their uniforms. “Sorry to disturb you Ma’am,” Doug said, stepping forward and removing his hat. “I don’t know if you remember me, Doug Green, I’m a Constable with the Ratcliff Police Department?”

  The woman squinted, her eyes nearly shut and looked him up and down before asking, “So, what do you want?”

  “We’re here about your son,” Doug informed her patiently, gently. “This is my partner John Stevens and this is detective Cannon with the Ontario Provincial Police, she’s looking into what happened to him.”

  The old woman looked them over suspiciously, scrutinizing them carefully before returning her glare to Doug.

  “So, what do you want from me?” she asked again, as if she were facing a smooth talking vacuum cleaner salesman rather than members of law enforcement.

  “May we come in?” Doug asked politely.

  The woman glanced nervously over her right shoulder, back into the house. “It’s not a good time, I watching my program.”

  “It’s important that we ask you a few questions, we won’t keep you long, I promise,” he urged her gently.

  “I already told that other feller everything there was to tell,” she said insistently, taking a step back into the ho
use and placing a bony hand on the door as if to close it.

  “What other feller would that be?” John asked.

  She tilted her head back, looking up at the porch awning in deep thought, a few seconds later she gave up trying to remember and flapped her hand at them. “I don’t remember his name. You ought to know, the big cheese . . . your boss! He came by yesterday to give us the news.”

  “We won’t take much of your time but it’s very important that we speak with you and your husband,” Doug said insistently.

  The woman’s shoulders slumped slightly as she let out a sigh and pushed the door open for them. Doug followed her inside, showing respect by wiping his feet on the doormat. John stepped in next, Cannon right behind him, gently closing the door once they were inside.

  A cast iron wood stove in the corner warmed the living room and the old woman took a seat nearby in a wooden rocking chair. The couch and armchair were draped with quilts and a small television played quietly in the center of the room where an evangelist spoke reverently to a group of worshippers. A basket of knitting implements was within arms reach and she returned to the large square of blue cotton that she’d been working on before she had been interrupted by their arrival. The old woman went back to her knitting, rocking gently in the chair while her eyes darted back and forth between the piece she was working on and the TV.

  “Mrs. Dushku?” Doug said after some time had passed. “Is your husband home?”

  “He’s in the cellar,” she said without looking up.

  Doug looked back at John and the detective, he’d never spoken to the parents of a murder victim before but he could tell that the woman’s behavior was bizarre considering the circumstances. John gave him a nod and motioned for him to proceed.

  “May we speak to him?”

  The woman let out another sigh before filling her lungs and stomping a foot on the floor. “BILL, WE GOT COMPANY!”

  She went back to her knitting and the stairs creaked nearby. A few moments later Bill Dushku walked slowly into the room with his hands thrust into his pockets, his arms as skinny as number two pencils. His pants were cinched tight around his waist by a belt that looked as if he’d lost a great deal of weight since its purchase by the length dangling from the end and his unshaven face and unsteady gait made him look like almost like a holocaust survivor.

  “What do you want?” he croaked, his eyes shifting between the unwelcome guests standing in his living room.

  “Mr. Dushku, I’m Doug Green. I’m with the Ratcliff PD . . . ”

  “I know who you are. I said, what do you want?”

  “We’re here about your son.”

  “I have no son,” he said testily.

  The old woman looked up from her knitting momentarily, “Bill . . . ”

  “Don’t Bill me,” he snapped back, turning his annoyance back to the intruders. “I told you, I got no son. Now either state your business and get out or just get out, I don’t much care which.”

  “Mr. Dushku,” Doug said, patiently, “I know this must be a difficult time for you and your wife, but if we could just talk to you about your son . . .”

  “Told you,” he interjected insistently. “I got no son.”

  “We know, that’s why we’re here. This is my partner John Stevens and detective Cannon from the OPP, she’s heading up the investigation into what happened to Paul.”

  “Don’t bother,” he snapped at them. “It’s God’s work.”

  When Doug couldn’t find a response to the remark, John stepped in, moving closer to the man so he could look him in the eye. “We understand, Mr. Dushku. Just the same, we can’t have people taking God’s work or the law into their own hands. We need to ask you both some questions, then we’ll be on our way.”

  The man thought about it for a moment, looked over at the television and then back to John before shrugging his shoulders and brushing past him on his way to the couch and sitting down. John looked over at Sarah and she motioned for him to go on.

  “Mr. Dushku,” John said, lowering himself into the chair so they were at eye level. “I’m new in town so I didn’t know Paul. But, I’ve had some experience with this sort of thing and if you could just tell us a little about him, it’d be a big help to us.”

  “What do you want to know?” he said, shrugging again.

  “Well, it’s my understanding that Paul dropped out of school about two years ago?”

  “Big mistake,” he nodded. “Man with no education . . . ” He trailed off without finishing the thought.

  John leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I understand. Then he took a job at the bindery?”

  “Yep.”

  “That seems like kind of physical work, I imagine he must have worked hard over there?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You seem like a hard worker yourself, some of it must have rubbed off on him.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Did Paul like his job . . . was he having any problems that you know of?”

  “Not that I can say.”

  “No? Did he never said anything to either of you about anyone giving him a hard time over there?” The man shrugged again, shaking his head slowly. “How about while he was still in school, anyone giving him a hard time over there?”

  Bill Dushku let out a HA, taking his hands from his pockets and folding his arms across his chest. “What do you think?”

  “Well, I know Paul was . . . different, that can make it hard to fit in sometimes.”

  “That’s how it should be,” he said firmly. “You live your life the right way then you get along with God’s good grace. You go against God . . . ”

  “I understand. Do either of you remember Paul mentioning anyone specifically who was giving him a hard time, bullying him or anything?”

  “Not that I recollect.”

  Mrs. Dushku raised her head from her knitting. “Well, from time to time.”

  Her husband’s eyes locked on hers and she instantly lowered her head, resuming her knitting. The tension between them wasn’t lost on the cops in the room. From behind them, John heard Sarah Cannon clear her throat. She coughed quietly into a closed fist. “Mrs. Dushku?” she said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?”

  She looked to her husband for approval and he jerked his head toward the kitchen.

  - - -

  Sarah followed Mrs. Dushku into the kitchen, continuing to feign a tickle in her throat until they were out of earshot of the men in the living room. She graciously accepted a glass of luke-warm water from the tap and thanked her when she’d finished, carefully placing the glass into the sink.

  “Mrs. Dushku,” she said quietly, stopping her as she turned to leave the kitchen. “You mentioned that your son had trouble at school from time to time, may I ask what you meant by that?”

  She looked nervously back to the living room where they could hear the men talking quietly. She seemed reluctant to say anything that could get her into trouble with her short-tempered husband. Sarah knew the type well. The leather strap hanging from the wall beside the framed picture of Jesus spoke volumes. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to reassure her. “We’re just trying to figure out what might have happened to your son.”

  “Sometimes,” she whispered, “he came home beat up.”

  “Did he ever say what happened?”

  Her head tilted up towards the ceiling, her eyes shifting to the right. It was an involuntary response that occurred when people accessed their memories. People pretending to think, when they were actually trying to fabricate a response, their eyes shifted to the left instead. It was her job to know the difference.

  “Well, I seem to remember Paul mentioning a few kids that were giving him a hard time. Once in a while he’d come home with a black eye or his shirt ripped up, like he’d been in a fight.”

  “Now, was this while he was still in school, or did this happen at the factory?”

  �
�Funny thing,” she said thoughtfully. “It started back when he was still in school. Can’t say it came as a surprise. Paul dressed kind of funny. Sometimes he’d even wear eyeliner and one time he even dyed all his hair pink, looked like he was going out for Halloween if you ask me. His father whupped his ass from one end of the house to the other that day.”

  “But . . .”

  “But, even after he left school, once in a while I’d see him crossing from the wash closet to his bedroom, and he was black and blue all over.”

  “And this was after he left school and started at the factory?”

  “I think so . . . yeah.”

  “Could it have been, I mean, could he have had a fight with his father?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said sadly. “There were a few of those too, but my husband isn’t a well man.”

  “But a few seconds ago you mentioned that your husband got a little rough with him when he dyed his hair?”

  “Oh, that was a couple years ago. I think my husband had given up on trying to change him by the time he dropped out of school. As I said, he’s not a well man,” she leaned in closer and whispered gently, “he’s got the butt cancer.”

  Sarah nodded sympathetically. Meanwhile, for a man as angry as Mr. Dushku, a good dose of prostate cancer was just what the doctor ordered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she lied. “So you’re pretty sure the bruises you saw didn’t come from your husband?”

  “Pretty sure,” she nodded.

  “Did you ask Paul what happened?”

  “A few times, but he wouldn’t say.”

  “Okay. How about while he was still in school, you said some boys were giving him a hard time and he’d come home looking like he’d been in a fight, did he mention any names back then?”