In the Shadows, page 4
“Well, I’m not going out on the roof almost naked.” That comment drew a grunt from the singer.
“You’re topless on stage.”
“I’m dancing for an audience then! Besides, it’s dark and spooky out there.”
“Velma!” Roxy shouted loudly. “You better check the roof! At least she’s dressed and she’s the boss, right?”
Velma appeared at their door. “What’s the problem – I’m bushed.”
“You’ve gotta check the roof.”
“I’ve told you guys not to go out on the roof after the show. Someone could fall over the side! Nobody listens.”
Matthew Allen was behind Velma. The photographer was a fixture at the club. He always came upstairs with the cast, knew their names and sometimes took photos. He was interested in the whole show. The cast had gotten used to him being there.
“What’s up?”
“The roof again, what else? Matthew, would you go out there for me? The roof creeps me out.”
“No problem.” Matthew opened the inside door just as the solid safety door swung his way. He caught it and stepped out into the cool night’s blackness. He walked over to the back fence to the fire escape. He saw that the stairs had been lowered down to the street. He glanced down but saw no one. He turned back in the direction of the door. “Wherever you are, get back inside.” Matthew called out one last time. “If you’re there, get your butt inside.”
No one answered.
Matthew hadn’t checked out behind the cement pillar that had once been a chimney. Even if he had, Matthew still might not have seen Dylan lying face down in his black clothes. In the pitch, dark shadow of the old chimney, Dylan’s silver zippers might as well have been black.
Dylan lay still and abandoned.
Matthew stepped back inside, pulled the heavy door closed and drew both bars across it. He shut the second door and walked down the hallway to Velma. “I looked around. No one! No smell of pot either.”
“I’m sure someone went up on the roof during the show.”
“How do you know, Velma?” Matthew asked.
“I was standing near the DJ, and I heard someone step on that high stair. You know, the third one from the top. Didn’t hear anyone fall, but I’m positive there was someone on the stairs. There’s no point trying to investigate tonight. Most of the gang are tanked. I’ll warn the performers about the roof access again next month. I have to lock up. I don’t even want to think about what might happen if some street trash got into Cleo’s through that back door. I can’t be the person responsible for a break-in. God!” Velma marched back out to the hall and shouted with hands cupped at the sides of her mouth. “Hurry and pack everyone, I want to get home.
Do I have a lift with you?”
“Sure,” Matthew answered.
“I suppose I have to walk the three-and-a-half blocks to get to the car?” It never occurred to Velma to wonder why Matthew came to all the performances. He was a curious guy who took great photos. The other photographers appeared at every show for their blogs and it boosted her morale; she never queried their reasons either. Matthew was an undemanding friend with great stories. He was interesting. He also went out of his way to drive her home. What was there to question?
While waiting, Matthew thought momentarily of Dylan as he watched the performers spill out onto St-Laurent Boulevard to return to their private lives, and, for the fortunate, a steady paycheck. Vulnerable souls, perhaps like himself. Am I one of them? Matthew kicked that uneasy thought aside. Velma joined him and they took off together.
Chapter Seven
[2:55 a.m., Sunday morning]
Laval
The crime scene had been set up. It was a busy place. The police of the suburban city of Laval congregated just inside the taped-off area. The Crime van had arrived. The forensic team stepped into white Tyvek polyethylene suits that covered them from head to toe. The parking lot and the tented restricted area was lit by powerful lamps by the van’s growling portable generator. The team was dropping markers on the ground, bagging the weapon and the victim’s hands and finally, tabbing the bullet entries on the body. Using scissors for precision, they cut double-sided tape to size for marking hot spots on the ground. They had also shut down the area where the officer had stood and fired. The team recovered three shell casings and dropped them into labeled evidence bags and then meticulously examined the whole area with small UV flashlights. Photographers were flashing photo angles and close-ups. However, the pathologist was not on the scene. He did his work at the Montreal city morgue on rue Parthenais. After the autopsy, he would confer with forensics and the detectives handling the case.
Behind the cordoned-off area, a crowd of the curious had gathered. Neighbors from the triplexes on rue Favreau had either heard the commotion or called their neighbors and joined the folks from the apartment. A few police officers, wearing day-glo high-visibility vests, stepped out from the tape and tried unsuccessfully to prevent people from taking videos and photos. A few backed away, but rushed forward as soon as the officer turned his attention to another group.
No one from the apartment that had its lights on during the incident had come forward to admit witnessing the shooting.
Two Major Crimes detectives arrived and stood waiting to hand the case off to the SQ, the provincial police. They knew that the officer involved in the shooting was from the Crémazie Division. Not that that mattered much – they would support him because he was part of the brotherhood and sisterhood of Blue. His division had been alerted. Officer Daniel Boucher stood off by himself. He had answered few questions. He was focusing on the apartment crowd, willing their continued silence. Three feet behind him, it seemed that the officer who had spoken to him was there to protect him from any conversation that could get him in trouble. If he got through this, he owed that cop. His mouth was dry and he held himself so stiffly his body ached. He felt older than his thirty-four years, younger than a frightened four-year-old. He raised a fist to his mouth and began to bite hard on each of his fingers, a habit when he was upset.
A Laval cop spoke gruffly, “Stop that! Try to look composed. Eyes are on you.”
Boucher squirmed as if ants were crawling up and down his legs. They had crawled into his stomach. They were eating his guts. Sweat rolled off his upper lip. His uniform was drenched and he could smell himself. There was so much to do. He had to find that woman and … and what … that didn’t matter then. He needed to find her. He stood stiffly, his shoulders heaving up and down with each quick breath. Boucher was relieved that the Major Crimes detectives had not bothered him. He couldn’t deal with both forces. When would the SQ arrive and set a date to interview him? Then he could leave and begin the work that would save him from prison. I’m not going down for this! I’ll do anything to save my ass!
For the first time since the shooting, Boucher looked over at the victim. Jacques had fallen on his side. All Boucher could see were the Air Jordan trainers because the Crime techs were kneeling around him, still at work. Boucher remembered the shoes and the gray jeans when he forced the gun into Jacques hand. A tremor rushed up his legs to his shoulders. He had never killed a man, an unarmed man. I just lost it. I told the bastard not to run his shit, probably Fentanyl as well, in Laval. I have kids. I warned him! You can’t say I didn’t warn you, Jacques. I’m not going to hold the bag for this one. You arrogant shit – you forced me to take you on. Now you’ve shut us both down.
Two SQ detectives arrived at the crime scene. They walked over to the body; spoke with the techs in charge who pointed to Officer Daniel Boucher. He wiped his hands on his pants and tried to straighten up.
The cop whispered, “Don’t give them anything – ask for an interview time.”
Boucher turned slightly, asking as he put his hand up to his mouth, “Why are you helping me?”
“We’re cops.”
The detectives, stocky men in their late thirties – one balding, the other close cropped, were serious, focused. They introduced themselves. Boucher did the same. “Officer, the vic had a weapon but he didn’t get a shot off, not one discharge. You fired three times according to the techs.” Detective Goulet, second on the case, struck quickly to take advantage of an obviously anxious officer who had fatally shot a man outside his jurisdiction.
Boucher cleared his throat. “I’ve, I’ve, the vic had … I can’t answer questions right now. I’ve never shot anyone.”
“You’d prefer to wait for a formal meeting at the Crémazie Division?”
“Yes, I never … I need a rep or something. I never shot anyone.” Shock began to descend on Boucher. He had killed a man.
“That’s procedure, of course. I had hoped we might have a head start. How about two Monday afternoon at Crémazie Division? But first, we’ll need your gun.” He produced an evidence bag. “Get yourself down to evidence. They’ll need your clothes and will take photos of your hands for gunshot residue. Before the meeting, write up your sworn statement of this incident. Are we clear?”
Boucher nodded and handed his weapon to Detective Goulet. “I’ll meet with you at two.”
“Before you leave, the techs need the whereabouts of your car, and the vic’s for that matter?”
“Up on Goyer.” Boucher reached for his wallet and dug out his registration. The SQ detective snapped a photo of the information. “Mine’s a gray Ford, and the vic’s car is a black Audi, two cars in front of mine, one block up the street.”
“How did they both get there?”
“I’ve never shot anyone … I …”
“I see, Officer Boucher. We are just trying to do our jobs. Take some time. Try to get some sleep.”
Sleep! Sleep was the last thing on Boucher’s mind. Once the SQ left him to talk again and make notes, Boucher lingered. He waited for what seemed an eternity for someone from the apartment to come forward. He wiped sweat from his eyebrow. If there was a second witness, he or she was no doubt waiting for him to leave. Boucher was wasting his time. He looked back at the cop behind him.
“I’ll walk out with you. That’s where it ends for me.” When they were on the sidewalk, he added, “I was serious. Get the facts straight – don’t give them shit that won’t fly with cops. Give up the facts, period. Stories are nets. About the vic’s gun – you know what you have to do.”
“Why are …”
“I’ve been there.”
“You came out clean then?” Boucher said hopefully.
“They broke me down to patrol. I was a detective. Ha, clean, right. Go set up your details.”
“Then I owe you.”
When Boucher was back in his car, he collapsed, exhaling noisily. His head rested on the steering wheel. His wife had told him that a woman in the neighborhood was frightened of drug deals being delivered at three in the morning next door on Goyer. The woman’s car was vandalized. Laval police hadn’t helped much. Boucher knew the dealer. Boucher had kids in Laval. He’d bust him down alone. What bumped in his head that night were ‘facts’ and ‘gun.’ He sat back up, turned on the ignition, took the wheel and noticed blood smears on his hands. When forensics finished up, a cleanup team arrived at the crime scene.
Chapter Eight
Lieutenant Detective Toni Damiano stood on Mount Royal – the mountain park in the center of the city – with her cell phone in hand, staring at the disappointed and judgemental faces of her husband Jeff and her son Luke.
“We planned this family day a month ago, Toni. Now you’re doing your usual pull-out!”
Luke kept running in place, quiet and sullen.
“Jeff, I honestly thought the chief was calling me about the Laval shooting – I wouldn’t have gone in. I swear.”
“But … but what?”
“He’s in the hospital, and Pamela sounded nervous.”
“They have two sons, don’t they? Why are you going?” Damiano shrugged distractedly. Jeff Shea could see his wife’s mind was already back on her job, or a promotion, or whatever … She had already left them. How could he compel family values on a wife whose physical presence was all he had, and that not for much longer. It was a battle that had been lost long ago.
“Chief Donat was there for me.” Jeff and Luke took off. “I need to take the car!” she shouted after them. “You’ll have to cab it or walk home!” Jeff kept running, giving her a dismissive wave over his right shoulder. Damiano would not have seen their point of view six months ago, but that Sunday morning she was on their side. Still she turned and began her descent toward Montreal’s imposing Sir George-Étienne Cartier Monument. “George-Étienne was honored and criticized, but he still managed to have himself memorialized with angels! There’s hope for me,” she said to console herself. She ran quickly by the tam tam drummers who were already in one of their jam sessions on the monument steps. Damiano was a tall and imposing figure herself. She was fit and strong, although one might not suspect she was also a top cop, a cop who breathed a sigh of relief that she had taken her car. Asking Jeff for his car keys, well, her eyebrows rose, “There’d be no justification, at least I can’t think of one at the moment. Pamela doesn’t even want me there!” When she found her car on Rachel Street East, she popped the trunk of her Audi and pulled out a rolled-up towel with a brush and eyeliner, the only makeup she had with her.
The renovation of the Turcot Interchange – Montreal’s three-level freeway – and the many closures and detours had blown the fuses of most drivers. The city was in a virtual construction shutdown. Damiano was fortunate it was Sunday. Once she caught Côte-des-Neiges Road she wound her way out to the Trans-Canada Highway and exited on boulevard St-Jean in the West Island. From there, the route was simple, right on Hymus Boulevard, left on Stillview Avenue, left again on Seigniory Avenue where she parked. She knew a friend who lived at the Southwest One Complex, and Damiano cut through it and crossed over to the Lakeshore Hospital. At the information desk, she learned Chief Donat’s room number. Damiano took the stairs and paused at the fourth landing. Would she be able to see the chief? She followed the posted directions and made her way to Room 404, just as an unsmiling, tired woman stepped out into the hall. She was as tall as Damiano and seemed to be capable of tearing a strip off the detective.
“I wish you hadn’t come, Detective.” There was little emotion in Pamela’s voice and no interest. Her eyes were red from no sleep. She hadn’t had any opportunity or chance to change her clothes or wash up. She looked as bad as she felt.
“You can’t keep an Italian away from a sickbed, Pamela.” The humor that Damiano had aimed for flattened. “The chief was there for me and he has helped me through my own recovery. I want to be here. I won’t stay long. I promise.” Damiano engaged Pamela, and behind the fatigue there was warmth, deep in Pamela’s eyes.
Still Pamela stood her ground. “If any of this gets out …”
“Pamela, I’m here as a friend.” The seriousness of the situation struck Damiano, and she felt extraordinarily out of place and intrusive. Color drained from her cheeks as she entered the room behind Pamela.
“Richard, are you awake? Detective Damiano is here,” Pamela whispered as she kissed the chief on the forehead while herding the boys from the room with a turn of her head.
Damiano felt a stab of fear seeing Chief Donat so still, so fragile. She wanted to leave.
The chief opened his eyes, gently pushing Pamela away. He made no effort to sit up, but his eyes were alert with a fire Damiano welcomed. “Well, you’re here,” Chief Donat said. “Don’t touch my files.”
Damiano laughed loudly, and the chief knew she’d gotten the message.
“Or begin funeral arrangements.”
Pamela, surprisingly, smiled too. “You are indeed hopeless, Richard.”
“Whatever you want done, Chief, I will do. No one will learn about your condition. What about Head Office though?”
“No need to advise anyone yet. Don’t be so anxious to take my chair. See where it’s gotten me. Handle my affairs from your office and continue on with your own work.”
“I understand. How are you, Chief?”
“How do I look, Detective?”
“I remember what you said in my hospital room with a bone protruding from my elbow. ‘You’re tough. Remember that, Damiano.’ Well, Chief, I’ve seen you looking better. But you’re every bit as tough as I am. How you look now doesn’t matter.”
Chief Donat smiled ruefully. “Now, get out of here. Leave me to my recovery.” He appeared to be nodding off.
“Take care.” Damiano said quietly.
Pamela followed Damiano out. “Detective, I see why Richard likes you. Thank you.”
“He’s an exacting boss, but he’s a good man. I know it’s a lot more serious than the chief wants to admit, probably his heart I’m guessing.” His face was ashen, and Donat reminded her of her grandmother who looked much the same after her coronary. “Keep your spirits up, Pamela. You can trust me.” Damiano left quickly. She thought of the chief’s sentence. See where it’s gotten me! She drove home, trying to come up with ideas for re-entry with Jeff and Luke. Why is life so goddam tough?
She left the car in the driveway and stood outside their home on Anwoth Road, in the affluent city of Westmount. A pressure began its usual rise, first in her stomach, then it rushed up her shoulders. Why am I always apologizing, always wrong? What did Jeff tell me once? Oh yes, I am arrogantly selfish? The chief won’t be back anytime soon, what do I do now? Damiano braced herself and tried as best as a loud person could to open the front door and close it quietly. The air smelled of shampoo and cologne – of clean men, and comfort.
Damiano found Jeff on the back patio, engrossed with The New York Times. He heard the French doors opening, put down the paper and waited for her to speak. Jeff wore his indifferent look, she thought, as an irritation because it worked. An elbow on the table beside him, his thumb under his chin and two fingers crossed on his temple, like a professor, displeased with a student. “I think the chief has suffered a heart attack.”
