In the Shadows, page 15
“Okaaay.”
“That’s very good! Good pace.”
“Thnnn yu.”
“No need. I am so happy to be with you. Let’s keep moving. Good. When you come through this, Mom, I want you to make me one promise. You’re only in your sixties, live your own life. Do what pleases you! We have only one life – you have one too. You used to sketch and you were talented. I’ve seen your work in the basement. Go back to that if you’d like, or anything that might interest you. Call up old friends. See them on your own. Dad has had a good life and he’s fine. You’ve taken such good care of him, and you deserve your own fun. It’s not too late. I want to know that you’ve lived, and not just lived for us.”
His mother stopped walking. She was trying to smile again. Her eyes filled with excitement. “I wiii! I wiiil! You ra a goo soon!” Matte wrapped his arms around his mother and held on.
“I just want you happy, for yourself. Forget us. Let’s keep walking.” Once they were back in her room, Matte took off the sweater and lifted his mother back into bed. She was light in his arms. He felt if he squeezed, he might break a bone. He fluffed the pillows and wiped her forehead. “You’re a trooper!”
“Yoou?”
“I’m okay.”
“Happe?”
Tears welled in Matte’s eyes. Happy to be here. His mother pinched his hand again. “Not much, Mom. Dad was right. He’d be glad to know that. I don’t fit in.”
“Hansoom.”
Matte smiled weakly. “We look alike. I’m glad.”
“Sooombudy?”
“Not for awhile.”
“Dylan? Are you not togethe? You wer happy.”
The jealousy Matte had been living with enveloped him, and his face twisted with rage. He turned away.
“Sooon?”
“It’s okay, Mom. You’re on my side and that’s what counts. You know I love you, right?” His mother pinched his hand again. Matte saw himself in his mother. She was tall, small-boned, fine featured with long, delicate piano hands, like his. “Don’t ever forget that I love you.” Another pinch. An hour later, soothed by the warmth of her security, Matte fell asleep against his mother’s hand, his first peaceful sleep in days. She watched over him.
Pierre Senior made a loud entrance. He was a muscular man with a wrestler’s neck and a booming voice. “Well, Dorothy, my love!” When he saw Pierre, he was about to shout. Dorothy sent her husband a withering look. He was sulking when Pierre awoke, feeling awkward.
“Dad, I wasn’t sleeping the whole time. It’s been a tough week.”
“You know that your mother’s the patient, Pierre,” he growled, leaning back on his heels.
“Mom, I better go. I have to deliver evidence tonight.” He kissed her, nodded to his father and left.
Dorothy kept her eyes on her husband. “Whi?”
“Pierre gets under my skin – Jesus, he was sleeping!”
Dorothy closed her eyes.
“Alright, Do, I’m sorry, as usual. I’m always at fault in your eyes where Pierre’s concerned. I’m sorry.”
Dorothy shook her head, wishing she could say clearly, “He’s your son.” You can be an insensitive bastard.
Chapter Thirty
Officer Boucher had turned off his phone, although he checked his calls. The SQ had tried three times to reach him. He was on suspension without pay. The way he saw it, he didn’t have to answer calls. Let them come to him. That Thursday night, he called Doucette. He parked outside Doucette’s home. “Louis, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m with my family, Daniel. We’ve said everything already. I’ll tell you again I’m not getting involved.”
“Five minutes – I’m your partner. I’m outside your house. If you don’t come out, I’ll come up.”
“Is that a threat?”
“One partner needing another – get your ass out here! Five minutes.”
“Marie-Claude, I have to go out to see Daniel.”
“Why? Call the police. He’s just making everything worse. You can’t go, Louis.”
“Call the cops on my partner? Are you crazy? You have no idea what shit would come down on me if I did. I’ll be back in five.” Louis told his wife to lock the doors. He walked up to the car and stopped by the passenger side. Louis leaned over. “What is it?”
“Hop in!”
“I can talk from here.”
Boucher raised a weapon. “Get in the fucking car, in the front seat.”
“You handed in your weapons. Where did you pick up this one?”
“I’m always prepared. Get in!”
Louis opened the door reluctantly and sat as close as he could to the door. “Why are you pulling this kind of crap on me? I don’t deserve this …”
“My ass is on the line. The SQ is looking for me.” Boucher saw the dread pass across Doucette’s face. “Damiano called you in, didn’t she? Don’t lie to me.” Boucher pushed his weapon into Doucette’s ribs.
It was clear that Boucher was wired. Doucette stalled, afraid to move. “Alright, she called me in, so what? It was bound to happen.”
“What did you tell her, Louis? You’re already sweating – you told her something, right?”
“You have a gun on me. That’s why I’m sweating, dickhead!”
“I’m not going to ask you again, Louis.”
“She knew we had gone back to the crime scene and ordered me to stay away or face suspension and a report. I don’t want any part of this. This is your mess.”
“Dammit, that’s not what I asked you? What the fuck did you tell her? That’s what I want to know. We’re cops – you’re my partner. She must know that you’d ask me if the perp had a weapon. Damiano’s a cop who knows the game. That’s what the SQ is checking. She must have fucking asked you that or else they wouldn’t have an APB out on me!”
“I told her I didn’t know. Is that good enough for you?”
“You’re lying, you pussy. They want to arrest me!”
“I think they have a witness – I’m not sure. That was my gut feeling.”
“Jesus. Did Damiano ask you if I discharged my weapon recklessly?”
“No.”
“God dammit! You’re still lying, Louis. Last chance.”
Doucette felt his only chance of escape was charging Boucher. He body-slammed Boucher into the driver’s door. The gun exploded inside the car. Doucette looked over at Boucher who was shocked as Louis collapsed against him. “I said you thought he …” Doucette lost consciousness. Marie-Claude opened the front door screaming, but Boucher sped off, raising dust and leaving tire marks.
“Wake up you fucker. I would never have shot you, Louis. You’re my partner! Don’t die on me. Don’t die on me!” He sped to Sacré-Coeur Hospital on boulevard Gouin with his hand on the horn, zigzagging through gridlock. He shook Doucette the whole way, trying to wake him up. Boucher’s face swelled with fear. He tried to calm himself with the illusion that Doucette was responsible for the accident. “I would never have shot my partner!’ he shouted. “Witness! It has to be that bitch or the idiots in the apartment. Now this!”
He drove to Emergency and honked. He jumped from the car, shouting, “Officer down! Officer down!” It didn’t take long before nurses and a doctor came out running. Boucher knew the hospital had a trauma unit. In seconds, Doucette was lifted onto a gurney, and the nurses and doctor were running back inside the emergency corridor with the wounded officer. Boucher ran after them. “It’s an accidental shooting. Is my partner alive?”
“Barely.” The crew disappeared behind emergency doors. Boucher saw the blood on his shirt and pants. He hurried back to the car, popped the trunk and pulled out his football jersey. He tore off his shirt and pulled the jersey on over his head. He was stuck with the pants. He couldn’t stay. Instead, he drove to an ATM and emptied the account. A hiding place was what he needed. His idea was risky, but he felt he had no choice. He drove to a Walmart parking lot. It took Boucher less than ten minutes to switch plates. In the Walmart he bought pants and a hoodie. He’d have to wait for darkness, so he sat in the vast parking lot. He did exit the car once to see what he had in his trunk, looking for tools. He found what he might need.
At nine-fifteen, he drove to rue Notre-Dame and parked. He walked to 7th Street, past the old woman’s house, checking the height of a white wire fence. Not a problem, he thought. He stayed away from the old couple on the balcony across the street. That old fart probably called the cops. He’d jump the fence from the other side. He saw no patrol car – they must be finished for the day or changing shift. Seeing an open path, Boucher set about climbing the fence with new purpose. With one hand on top of the fence, he put a foot on the rail and hopped over. He felt a sharp stab in his hip and breathed air through his teeth. He crept around the back of the house and found a small door he wasn’t expecting. A house directly behind had lights on, but the door he needed was located at the bottom of three steps shielding him from view. An air conditioner was attached to the side of the house making enough noise to muffle the sound of breaking glass. He couldn’t take time picking the lock. He pulled his hoodie sleeve over his hand and broke the window, listening for an alarm. Nothing. In a flash, he was standing inside a dark basement. He heard loud talking.
“The police called. Just a second. I think I heard something. Don’t speak.” Seconds passed. “I guess I was wrong. Nerves. They’re sending another patrol. I prefer staying in my own house. You both have to understand. I have my neighbors and I have the police. I’m fine here with my tea and almond cookies. I’m glad of your calls, too.”
Boucher crept to the bottom of the stairs. He could see them because of the hall lights.
“I’ll watch the end of the Blue Jays’ game in the bedroom. I’ll call to say good night.”
He wondered if the old woman had an emergency bracelet. He’d have to surprise her, give her no time to press a call button or grab a phone. Boucher inched up the stairs to the living room on the first floor. He peeked around the carpeted stairs leading to the second floor. He saw items on the sides of the stairs and reminded himself not to trip over them. The television was playing in the room on his right. He crept up on all fours and scanned his target. From what he could see, the room was small. He didn’t go farther. Boucher would wait for her to turn off the set and leave the room. He knew she had a phone with her. “I know where you are,” Boucher whispered. “I can wait.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Chief Damiano had heard from Goldberg’s lawyer that the Crime team could change on the landing outside his condo, preventing an invitation to the media to swoop down on rue Notre-Dame like seagulls to garbage. Damiano had driven down alone because she had a favor to ask Marie Dumont of Crime. The crew arrived on time and carried their equipment up to the condo where they changed quickly and quietly under the scrutiny of Aaron Spitzer. Damiano had put on white booties and gloves.
“Don’t touch anything, Toni.”
Damiano wanted to fire back at Dumont that this wasn’t her first time at the circus, but refrained. Goldberg’s face was ashen, darker from the emerging stubble. He and Spitzer stood alone as the team invaded his condo like a creeping spread of ants, dusting, filling bags, lifting cushions, taking samples and pointing to jobs rather than talking. Damiano never liked watching the work. She motioned to Marie. “I’d like to go to Kane’s apartment first. Will you do that favor for me? I’m not needed here.”
“Toni, you know that’s not protocol, even if you are the acting chief. Rules.”
“You have my word that I won’t touch anything. I’d like to get a feel for the place. I’ve been on the sidelines on this case. I never knew the extent of Donat’s work. It’s overwhelming. I want to be involved; I want this death to matter to me. I’m at my best when I feel outrage at the loss of a life. Do you understand?”
“I can’t allow a detective to contaminate a scene related to murder. I’ll go with you. My team will finish up and join us. That’s the best I can offer. I’ll lend you a cap. I don’t want to be picking up your hair samples and wasting my time.”
Aaron Spitzer approached them, leaving Goldberg alone in his anguish. “My client has come up with a few names, nicknames really, but they should help.”
“You mean deflect attention from your client?”
“That too,” Spitzer smiled smugly. “One is the ‘Professor,’ Pete or Peter, he thinks. The other is the ‘Shield,’ no first name. My client thinks maybe a fireman or a cop. I have to say the deceased had taste. He wasn’t common.”
Damiano was copying the names, but fell in silenct without giving Spitzer the thanks he wanted. She waited until he left before she asked Dumont. “Do you know how many professors Concordia, McGill or UQAM has on staff?”
“A couple hundred?”
“Try four hundred professors at Concordia alone, from permanent staff, to associates, to visiting profs, to lecturers, to single courses and the list goes on. The campus is huge. This Peter may not even be a professor in reality, but we have to start somewhere.”
“Still Pete or Peter. You’re chief – delegate this grunt work.”
“I will, Marie. I’d like to go to the apartment tonight.”
“Remember what I said! Don’t disturb anything.”
“Girl Guide’s honor.”
“Were you ever a Guide?”
“Well, no.”
“Thought not.” Marie spoke to both techs and told them to follow her to Drolet when they were done here. She left them with the address.
Aaron Spitzer caught them before they left. “What about my client?”
“When we have the phone logs, the test results and forensics, I will personally contact Dr. Goldberg. What we’ve taken tonight will be returned when the case is closed if the items are not deemed evidence.” Damiano and Dumont changed and left, taking two cars to rue Drolet.
It was almost nine-thirty. Both sides of Drolet were jammed with residential cars. They double parked and kept their flashers on. The ground-floor apartment was located directly under the left side of stairs that mounted to three floors. The curving stairs, treacherous in winter, were indigenous to the city. They stepped into gear in the darkness. Dumont led the way. “Just a second, I can’t find the light switch.” She spotted a switch on the right wall. It lit a single bare bulb. She walked to a toilet beside a shower stall surrounded by one plastic curtain and lit the second bulb. “A monk wouldn’t find it easy living here.”
Damiano saw a single, cheap rollaway, to her surprise, neatly made. No television, radio, photos, books or phone, two wooden chairs, one used bridge table and what was meant to be an open closet. Dumont opened an aged fridge. Inside she found two liters of IGA water, half a liter of milk and moldy brown bread. The freezer was empty. Kane owned three pairs of shoes, four pairs of pants, six casual shirts and one suit. He used cardboard boxes for drawers. She found socks, underpants and a handful of white T-shirts. Under the kitchen sink, she found Gain laundry detergent and rubber gloves draped on top. Before Dumont touched anything, Damiano felt sick with herself, felt like a maggot, picking through the fragments of a life that crashed.
Dumont didn’t miss much. “What’s wrong, Toni?”
“The kid had nothing, no life of his own. He assumed the life of his lovers, but he was always just this, nothing. Sex was the only wholeness he had. I wonder why he hung on, why he ran from one man to another.”
“Why does anyone hang on? Incorrigible hope, I’d guess? What else does anyone have? You wanted to feel something for this vic. You have your wish. I have to get to work.” Dumont opened the four drawers beside the sink, fingered items and bagged some of them. She found corn flakes in a cupboard. “He had a starvation diet for staying lanky.” She went to the bed and scooped up the thin mattress. “Finally!” Dumont reached into her bag, found long tweezers and laid hold of the simple pad from the Dollar store. She also found a large photo of Dylan Kane.
“He was beautiful, flawless, and those blue eyes added a dash of flash.” Dumont wasn’t kidding. “Some package!” Damiano found herself staring and understood Matte loving him.
“And he lived in this hole and was strangled on a roof and abandoned. What a waste. It’s hard to believe that this kid who had nothing held sway over so many lives,” Damiano said with sadness. “Men ruined families, gay men suffered for an impulse of delight and passion.”
“One of them grew to hate him and took his life.”
Damiano wanted to grab the photo and pad. Instead, she stood beside Dumont as she carefully opened the pad on the table with her tweezers. The first page was neatly printed with Kane’s name and family numbers. “Do you have these?”
“We have them.”
On the second page three men were listed: Pierre Matte and his number, Peter Henley and his number and Nate Goldberg and his number. Dumont turned to face Damiano. “Did you know, Toni?” Dumont asked, aghast.
“I owe Pierre. He’s devastated. He refused to stay away from the investigation.”
“You owe him what?”
Damiano hesitated.
“I’m not asking as a friend; I’m asking as head of Crime. You’re jeopardizing an investigation!”
“From one cop to another, Dumont, I worked in god-awful pain last year after my arm splintered on the job. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get through work without help.”
“Advil and that stuff, that’s nothing.”
“I used prescribed meds with a boost of vodka. Is that enough for you? I’m clean now, but Matte worked with me and didn’t turn me in. He also let me work the sidelines when Luke was involved in that student’s death. So, I owe him.”
Dumont asked warily, “Is that the reason you wanted to come alone to this apartment? To tamper with evidence? Toni, you’re acting chief! You should have invoked the conflict of interest clause, debt or no debt. Have you even entertained the possibility that Pierre might have murdered this vic?”
