This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin
over it. Green’s excitement surged.
He took the will into the living room, where the junior detective had made little headway with the pile of papers on the floor.“Here’s the will, the son’s name, and the lawyer. A lot was left to charities, but the rest is slated for his son. But I think you’ll find the last page interesting.”
Sergeant Levesque plucked the will from Green’s hands. “Where did you find it?”
“In the back of the closet.” Green could see that she was bewildered and suspicious, but unwilling to challenge the serendipity of his find. He shrugged. “Old people have their quirks. My father hides his passport and bank records in a cavity under the floorboards as if he’s still in the Warsaw ghetto.”
Levesque scanned the will, arching her eyebrows briefly at the last page before setting the will aside. “I will follow this up, of course, and contact the lawyer for the son’s address. But the will doesn’t seem too relevant to our investigation at this time. We have a whole list of gang members to check out first.”
“Beneficiaries are always relevant in a homicide investigation.”
“He’s been a beneficiary since 1999. I don’t see why he’d suddenly decide to kill his father now.”
Green frowned at her. “It looks as if his father may have had second thoughts. And the son needs to be investigated, whether Rosenthal wanted him disinherited or not.” He studied the resentment and uncertainty on her face and tried to soften his tone. “The way the economy is now, the son may have fallen on hard times and recently incurred huge debts.”
She flipped her ponytail in exasperation.“With due respect, sir, we don’t know what that ‘no’ means. Maybe the father was angry, then later regretted it. It was all a long time ago.”
“I’ll give you more men, if that’s an issue.”
“It is not an issue. Priorities are the issue. For sure this son will get my attention, along with all the gang punks in the city.” She caught herself and forced a tight smile. “But thank you for the offer, sir. I will let Staff Sergeant Sullivan know if I need it.”
Green caught the borderline insubordination in the woman’s retort and was tempted to call her on it, but stopped himself. She was like looking in a mirror, ten years ago, when he thought he knew everything. If she was as good as Sullivan believed, she would learn better soon enough.
Green forced himself to behave for the rest of the day, and by five o’clock he had a passable action plan drafted for Superintendent Devine to address the spike in domestic assaults. It would never be implemented, of course, but that wasn’t the point. It was ammunition for debates on the police budget at City Council, not to mention feathers for Barbara Devine’s Deputy Chief nest. Of course, the real way to prevent the spike would be to get rid of September, with all the stresses it placed on families after the casual, relaxed days of summer. He and Sharon had only two children, of very disparate ages, and yet they felt the stress of finding new schools, resuming full-time work hours, and juggling after-school activities.
To Green’s astonishment, Tony was going to kindergarten, and Hannah, true to her word, was trying out full-time Grade Twelve in the regular neighbourhood high school. For the occasion, she was letting her hair grow out, transforming the orange-tipped spikes into softer waves. She’d cut back on the black eye-liner and heroin-addict make-up, allowing her freckles and innocent hazel eyes to shine through. For the first time, Green saw not only his mother but himself in her face.
Naturally, the transformation required a new wardrobe. Hannah was a social animal astute enough to recognize that black rags and metallic studs would not earn her acceptance with the earnest children of the organic-food, eco-conscious set in their neighbourhood. Tony too needed brand new clothes, since last winter’s wardrobe was now several inches too short. The strain on their family budget and their time was enormous.
In fact it was Green’s turn to pick up Tony from the sitter and take him to The Bay for a fashion outing that Sharon had dubbed a father-son bonding experience, no doubt with tongue firmly in cheek. Green’s fashion sense did not extend beyond matching his cleanest pants to his favourite T-shirt, and Tony’s two-minute attention span, together with his determination to do as he pleased, made any excursion a test of endurance and willpower.
Sometimes domestic assault was a simple matter of tipping the balance too far.
Nonetheless, Green had managed to outline a five-point action plan for Devine that involved changes to police response at several levels, from first responding through laying of charges, and he’d thrown in enough buzz words— community partnerships, alternative dispute resolution, strategic intervention—that Devine would be salivating. He was just locking up his desk when he heard the elevator open and saw Brian Sullivan stride out, the tell-tale hint of high blood pressure on his dusky face. Sullivan spotted him and veered over, his colour deepening further. Green wondered if Levesque had complained again. He decided on a preemptive strike.
“You’re here late! The autopsy done?”
Sullivan flopped in the guest chair with a groan. “Just came from there.”
“And?”
“The man was healthy for his age. Some arthritis in his left hip which might have slowed him down a bit, but otherwise strong and fit.”
“Explains the cane. So what was the cause of death?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head. Repeated blunt force trauma, a dozen blows in total as near as MacPhail can tell. Fractured his skull, his jaw, some ribs and his collarbone.”
“Same instrument or several?”
“That’s hard to tell from the hamburger that was left. MacPhail’s taken lots of photos, so he’ll take a closer look.”
Green winced at the image. “Any specs on the type of instrument?”
“Again, he has to examine his tissue samples, but there’s nothing obvious to the naked eye. Something cylindrical and about five centimetres thick—about the size and shape of a baseball bat.”
“Not something that’s readily at hand on Rideau Street unless you brought it along.” Green mulled it over. Drug dealers and other punks normally didn’t carry baseball bats or obvious weapons that might draw attention to themselves. They preferred knives and guns. More deadly and easily slipped into the belt out of sight.
Sullivan’s scowl was easing, and his dusky colour was fading, as if he’d forgotten to be annoyed. “It may make it easier to find witnesses. Somebody walking along with a baseball bat would stand out.”
“I don’t remember any of those kids on the tape carrying baseball bats.”
“But we couldn’t see them all clearly. Sergeant Levesque is going to break the tape into stills, see if we can see anything.”
Green visualized the sequence of the assault. Rosenthal had tried to fend off his attacker with his cane before the killer got a good swing in. The earlier blows were likely less forceful, the latter ones would have produced the carnage.
“It would take a strong person to hit hard enough to break his skull like that,” he said.
“Strong or enraged.” Sullivan paused. “Some of the blows were post-mortem. The one that likely killed him was to the base of his neck, delivered when he was already lying down. Snapped his neck.”
Green tasted bile. “Coward. Attacking an old man in the first place, then hitting him when he’s down. This wasn’t a simple mugging, Brian. This was an assassination.”
Sullivan ran his broad hand through his bristly hair, frowning dubiously.“Well, it might have started as a mugging, but when Rosenthal resisted, the killer lost it. Maybe Rosenthal got a good hit in, and the attacker saw red.”
Green