This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin
it an accident, Daddy? Or a fire?”
“Could be lots of things, buddy.” A collision, a fight, a brazen robbery at the height of weekend shopping? Green scanned the area, but business was continuing as usual. The sounds appeared to be concentrated farther east and south, perhaps on Rideau Street.
“But we have to go see,” Tony insisted, his forgotten gelato dripping down his hand.
Sharon drew her son to her and rescued the gelato. “Other police officers are taking care of it, honey.” She cast Green a wary look. Her dark curls had been whipped by the wind, and a smudge of strawberry gelato clung to her delicate chin. “Daddy is busy helping us today.”
He reassured her with a sheepish grin. How well she knew him. He swooped his sticky son into his arms and turned to the bicycles. “Yes, we’re on the hunt for a pumpkin!”
“Three pumpkins!”
“Peppers and cauliflower too,” Sharon said, laughing. “Do you think we can fit everything in the trailer?”
Green contemplated the long ride back along the Ottawa River bike path. The view was inspirational, the terrain gentle, and the breeze a mere whisper. It should be manageable, if only he weren’t in such abysmal shape. He uttered a small prayer of resolve to hit the running track more often. Let the guys laugh.
As they walked their bikes along the crowded sidewalk stalls, Sharon gradually buried a gleeful Tony with brightly-coloured apples, peppers and squash. Between his knees, one long-faced, doleful pumpkin. The trailer grew heavier and heavier.
Another siren went by.
There was still no sign of the source of trouble, nor of public concern. No one was whispering or running to look. Green forced his thoughts back on track. Half an hour later, every cranny of the trailer and Sharon’s backpack was stuffed, and even she laughed ruefully about whether they were going to survive the ride home. She was barely five-foot two, and although she kept herself trim and fit, her fortieth birthday loomed.
Two more sirens sounded up ahead, and now even Sharon noticed his distraction. They were stopping at a red light, waiting to cross over Confederation Bridge and down beside the locks to the river path. Green twisted around, trying to see down Rideau Street behind him. In the distance he could distinguish a forest of flashing red.
“Not every emergency in the city is your responsibility,” she said.
“I know. Occupational hazard. But it looks major. That’s at least six responders.”
Tony was also craning his neck to see. “It must be a humongous fire, right, Daddy?”
Sharon snorted. “I’ve known a police car, ambulance and two fire trucks to respond to a cat in a tree.”
Green gave her an apologetic smile as he turned back to the light. Not in this neighbourhood, he thought. On his hip, his cellphone rang. He glanced at the ID. Ignoring Sharon’s warning scowl, he snatched it up. On a Sunday morning, a call from Staff Sergeant Brian Sullivan could only mean one thing.
Screech had slept poorly, curled up in his usual spot behind the Rideau Street grocery store. He’d woken far earlier than he’d wanted, still awash in the vodka he’d bought the night before but freezing cold. His hand had groped around for his sleeping bag, but closed on empty air. He cursed. Some worthless bum had stolen it right off his back! He unfolded himself and struggled stiffly upright, supporting himself against the rough bricks of the store wall. The sun was climbing overhead, and it cut harsh lines through the buildings on Rideau Street. He squinted as he scanned the shadowy nooks and crannies where the traitor might have settled. Nothing.
He limped to the sidewalk and headed up the block, dragging his left foot, which refused to obey him any more. He’d given up caring. Lots of things didn’t obey him any more, including his brain, which dropped things faster than he shoved them in, and his tongue which no longer formed the sounds he wanted. His fingers, frostbitten more times than he could remember, had trouble doing up zippers or opening bottles, so he never bothered to wrap himself properly in his sleeping bag. This wasn’t the first sleeping bag he’d lost, but it was the warmest. With the autumn frosts coming, he was damned if he would give it up without a fight.
A little ways up, he spotted it in an alleyway, almost hidden in the window well of a building, like the bum had tried to get out of sight. Outrage propelled him forward, a string of insults already forming on his lips. The culprit was completely wrapped in the bag except for his stockinged feet. Not a single hole in those fancy socks, Screech thought, adding fuel to his outrage. He propped himself against the wall so he could aim a good kick. His foot connected with soft flesh, but there was no grunt. No recoil. Understanding penetrated Screech’s brain. He’d felt that dead weight before. Either the guy was totally wasted, or he was dead.
Either way, it was not Screech’s business, but there was no point in a good sleeping bag going to waste. But when he leaned down to grab a corner, the bag felt crusty and damp. He snatched his hand away in disgust and stared at the red stains on it. Then he noticed the red all over the ground in half-dried streaks and pools spreading from beneath the body.
Fuck! He reeled back and tripped on the curb, twisting his good ankle and landing hard on his rear. Crablike, he scuttled backwards into the middle of Rideau Street. Horns blared, tires squealed, and a car swerved by him so close he felt its heat. He scrambled back to the curb. Waved a hand to flag someone down. What was everybody’s goddamn hurry?
Finally a car veered over to the curb, a door slammed and boots stomped around the car.
“What the fuck, Screech?” A familiar voice shouted.
Screech recognized a beat cop who brought him food and supplies when times were tough. Surprised at his relief, he tried to get his rattled brain in gear. “There’s a sleeping bag,” he said. “Bleeding. Dying.” Then he gave up and used his trembling finger to point.
Green locked up the bikes and piled Sharon, Tony and the vegetables into a cab. Although her eyes were glum, Sharon hadn’t uttered a peep of reproach, but Tony had to be cajoled into the back seat, squirming and protesting that he wanted to see the fire trucks. He was slightly mollified by the promise of lunch with Zaydie later on, but Green could still see his face pressed against the rear window as the cab pulled away. Trying to push guilt out of his mind, he called for a cruiser to take him to the crime scene.
There was a well-established protocol for homicide investigations, and Green knew it would be some time before he’d learn many details about the victim and the crime scene itself. But from the distraught patrolman who was first on the scene, Brian Sullivan had learned enough to make the call to Green. “It’s a homicide all right,” he’d said, “and not your usual homicide around here. An old man beaten beyond recognition. I thought under the circumstances, in this neighbourhood...”
Sullivan hadn’t needed to say more. While Green waited for the cruiser, he phoned his father. When he heard the familiar, singsong Yiddish voice, he felt a wash of relief.
“You okay, Dad?”
“I shouldn’t be?”
“You been outside today?”
“I’m watching a black preacher cure a blind boy. Maybe when that’s over.”
“Okay.” Green paused. No point in alarming his father, who lived with enough fears of his own making. Fears planted long ago, by jack boots and train whistles and the barking of guard dogs along the barb wire of the death camp. “I’m in town. How about we go to Nate’s for some cheese blintzes?”
“Why?”
Green kept his tone light. “I need a reason?”
“No. Why are you