Fifth Son. Barbara Fradkin
desk. “Suit yourself, Mike. But I’d say you’re good for at least two hours here, and this can’t wait.”
“Half hour tops. Then I’ll be set to go.”
True to his word, half an hour later Green logged off his computer, rounded up Sullivan, and together they set off. Robert Pettigrew lived on the tenth floor of a shabby apartment block in Alta Vista which would have been tolerable had it been on the north side overlooking the grassy shoreline of the Rideau River. Unfortunately, his minuscule apartment faced west over four lanes of Bank Street and the Billings Bridge Mall parking lot. Stale grease permeated the hallways.
The moment Robert Pettigrew opened his door, Green was struck by his resemblance to the dead man. In front of them stood a younger, handsomer, clean-shaven version, but the blue eyes and the sharp cheekbones were the same. There could no longer be any doubt that the man on the slab in the morgue was a Pettigrew.
Robbie introduced himself with a moist handshake and a nervous laugh. When Sullivan explained the purpose of the visit and produced the photo, he blanched and sank onto the sofa.
Sullivan took the lead. “Do you recognize the man?”
“No. Yes. Well, it looks like my father when he was younger.”
“Is it one of your older brothers?”
Colour began to return to Robbie’s face. “I haven’t seen my brothers in many years. Ohmigod, let me think.” He stood abruptly and carried the photo over to the light. While they waited, Green absorbed impressions about the room. It was neat and uncluttered, but the furniture was heavy, dark and worn, the carpet on the floor stained and threadbare. There were no pictures of family, or smiling children, or even his father. On the wall was a single framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflower—a splash of cheer in an otherwise bare and melancholy room. The room had a makeshift feel, as if Robbie had never wanted to live there.
Slowly, Robbie shook his head. “I thought it might be Tom, because he lives on the streets, and I imagine washing facilities would be somewhat limited.”
“The streets here in Ottawa?” Sullivan asked.
“Toronto. Last I heard he was living in a cardboard box under the Gardiner Expressway.”
“How old would Tom be?”
“Well, he’s twelve years older than me, so that makes him forty. In fact—” Robbie looked surprised, “his fortieth birthday was just last week.”
“But you don’t think it’s Tom?”
“It’s hard to tell from this, but Tom has a scruffier look, like he’s been battered a thousand times. He’s an alcoholic.”
“The photo’s been touched up, so that might not show,” Sullivan said. “Did Tom ever sustain any broken bones, because those can be identified in the post mortem. As can scars or tattoos.”
“I only saw him every few years, usually when he was in trouble. I confess I never looked very closely.”
“What about your other brothers? I understand there are five of you?”
“One’s dead. Died in a car crash fourteen years ago.” A spasm of pain crossed Robbie’s face. He withdrew a photo album from the bookcase beside the TV. “I haven’t seen the other two since I was eight, but I do have some pictures we can look at.” When he flipped open the album, the two detectives crowded around him, curious to get initial objective impressions of their own. Robbie leafed slowly through the pictures of smiling clusters of boys surrounding birthday cakes, perched atop tractors, posing with prize calves. Not exactly the cursed and tragic family that Sandy and the villagers had described yesterday, Green thought.
“I haven’t looked at these in a long time,” Robbie said. “It always feels surreal to me, like someone else’s family.” He gestured to a photo of a smiling blonde woman showing off her dress. “I can’t believe my mother ever smiled like that. As a child, all I remember are long stares and silence. Hours and hours of silence. Anyway...there’s Tom.” He stopped at a photo of a teenage boy, handsome in the slick, big-haired style of the eighties. He had a saucy grin on his face and a possessive arm around a girl with stunning black hair cascading to her waist.
“Good-looking guy,” Sullivan observed.
“Yeah. Dad always said Tom had a mesmerizing way with women, which somehow passed me by.” He managed a smile that warmed his mournful eyes. “Although I don’t think he’s had much more luck keeping them in the long run than I have.”
“What about Derek?” Green interjected, unable to restrain his curiosity. “Any pictures of him?”
Robbie flipped through some pages. “His university graduation picture is the last—ah-hah!” He spread a page in triumph. A proud, self-conscious grad smiled out of the picture. The deep-set blue eyes were almost identical to Tom’s, although the hair was lighter brown and the jaw line softer. But the striking difference was in the personality. Tom shone through as cocksure and sensual, Derek as quiet and deep in thought.
Sullivan held the photo side by side with the dead man’s, and they all studied it in silence. “How old would Derek be now?” Sullivan asked.
Robbie narrowed his eyes to calculate before replying forty two.
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
Robbie shrugged. “I’ve never heard from him. I was only eight when he went away to graduate school in California, and we had no real relationship. My parents heard from him every now and then, but I don’t know when was the last time.”
“Perhaps we might ask your father if he’s heard from him lately, and if Derek mentioned coming home?”
The young man seemed to think a long time before answering, as if debating the wisdom of disclosing family matters. “My father can’t speak,” he said finally. “He’s had a serious stroke that left him without speech and paralyzed on one side. I think he understands a little, but he can only say one or two words with great effort.”
Sullivan had stopped taking notes, no doubt regarding the father’s health as irrelevant, so Green jumped in before he could change the subject. “When did this happen?”
“About three months ago. He’s still in hospital; the doctors at first thought he wouldn’t survive, and later they said he’d never be able to go home again. That’s why I sold the farm. I work here in the city, and I couldn’t manage the farm. Anyway, I always hated the place.”
Green could see Sullivan starting to fidget. Sullivan was a no-nonsense, straight-ahead type of investigator who liked to stick to the point, gather the facts and move on. No dallying, unless he was playing a suspect on the line, and no wandering down side alleys. Green, however, felt there was a strange mystery in this family. The earlier photos painted a picture of a close, happy family who loved to celebrate together. But something had happened to change all that, and suddenly the eldest son moved to the opposite side of the continent, never to return, another son became a drunk, a third had died in a car crash, and a happy home had turned to silence. Now, twenty years later, had that prodigal son returned? What had drawn him back, and what—or who—had he encountered upon his return that he had ended up dead?
“Any special reason why you hated the place?” Green asked gently.
Robbie had been gazing at the picture of the farmhouse, taken years ago when the porch was straight, the trim white and the gardens lush with flowers. “Because my parents hated it. Because all they ever did was scream at each other, and my brothers left me all alone to cope with them.” He snapped the photo album shut and thrust it back in its slot. “I never cared to see my brothers, detectives, because they never cared for me. I hear from Tom about once a year, always when he needs me to bail him out of some mess. Bad debts, or a failed business scheme, or a bar brawl. I’m not a rich man. I’m a produce manager for Loblaws, I have two ex-wives and one little girl, and as you can see, I barely have a place to live. I’ve lent Tom money half