None So Blind. Barbara Fradkin
sexual problems. She had never breathed a word to teachers, counsellors, or friends. Everyone, including her boyfriend at the time, had described her as a happy, well-adjusted young woman.
“The facts simply didn’t point that way, James,” he said. “Even if you buy the idea that her body was dumped there to implicate you, it’s still a leap to Lucas Carmichael. Would he even know you were tutoring her? Do twenty-year-old kids tell their parents everything that’s going on in school?” Certainly not mine, he thought, but wisely kept his personal life to himself. “It’s much more likely Jackie would tell a friend or her boyfriend. In fact, at one time I remember he was your chief suspect.”
Rosten flicked his hand dismissively. “That was before I saw the hapless fellow on the stand and heard the whole of the Crown’s case. Then I realized that although you were a tunnel-visioned, cocky young buck, you were right about one thing; this was a mature, cold-blooded set-up, not the work of a jilted college kid. The boyfriend would have panicked and botched it, at best tried to make it look like a serial killer copycat. Where would he have gotten the vehicle to transport her body? How would he have known, on the spur of the moment, where my cottage was, so that he could conveniently plant the body in the woods nearby? You saw Erik Lazlo during the trial. A penniless country boy savouring his first rush of big-city freedom. He was a silly, shallow boy, more enamoured with marijuana and music than with romantic commitment. He wasn’t serious enough about her to carry out a crime of passion.”
“But if he found out she was sleeping with you —”
Rosten rolled his eyes. “That tired old crap? If you had proof of that, you’d have trotted it out in the trial. I’ve admitted I tutored her. I gave her a lift to her residence one evening. Unwise, certainly, especially in light of how that hair on the upholstery crucified me, but hardly criminal.”
“So you say. But Erik Lazlo may have thought —”
Rosten shook his head. “I didn’t sense they had a grand passion. I’ve had that, Inspector, whether you believe me or not. With my ex-wife. I know the signs. Jackie and Erik had known each other a long time; they were friends long before they were lovers. Remember, he was Gordon’s friend first; in fact he dated Julia too. Jackie was just the kid sister.” He paused, caught up in the memories.
Green waited, filling the silence with his own memories of Erik Lazlo, a wiry, good-looking young man who shared Gordon’s passion for dirt bikes, bush parties, and punk music, thrust by his parents into an engineering program for which he had no interest and even less talent. Certainly no match for the bright, ambitious Jackie. Beyond his looks, he could not have held her attention for long.
Rosten was right. Erik Lazlo was addicted to the next thrill. He liked fast music and faster bikes. He was not the type to brood or obsess about what had been lost.
Gradually Green became aware of Rosten’s eyes on him. “You still believe I’m guilty, don’t you?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter. It’s done. You’ve done your time —”
Rosten slammed the table. “It matters to me! You’ve built a nice career for yourself on the back of this case, but my life is ruined! Over! By God, at the end of it all, it would be nice to hear you admit you made a mistake.”
Green pushed his chair back and started to edge around the wheelchair. “A word of advice …”
“From you? Hah!”
Green sat back down again. “Listen, you arrogant jackass, you still have a chance to salvage something. Fuck the past, fuck the injustices you think you’ve suffered, fuck —” He jerked his hand up to silence Rosten’s protest. “Fuck the lost years. You’re hurting no one but yourself by hanging on to this bitterness. Guys can turn over the page, even after twenty years inside. You’re only fifty years old. You might have thirty or forty years left. You’re smart and educated. Make a place for yourself!”
“In here? And in this?”
“Wheelchairs are not the barrier they once were. And next time you’re up for parole —”
“I’ll never get parole. They want to hear me confess my sins.”
Green knew his flash of temper had been excessive, born as much of guilt as of anger. He forced himself to put his hand on the man’s arm, feeling the thin ropes of muscle through the coarse fabric of his shirt. Rosten flinched beneath his touch but didn’t pull away. “They’re only words, James. And they might be worth it. To get you outside again.”
“I’ve got no place to go.”
“Talk to Archie Goodfellow. There are halfway houses. Agencies.”
“Right. Ready to welcome the confessed schoolgirl murderer with open arms.”
Green said nothing. He knew it was a hell of a millstone, but he’d also seen people rise above much worse. Above unimaginable loss.
“And what would I do?” James added.
“That’s a question only you can answer. What do you want to do with the thirty years ahead? Rot in here, consumed with a bitterness and anger that everyone else has forgotten? Or get out there and see what use you can be.”
Chapter Three
Green could have phoned Marilyn right away, but a vague unease held him back. At the funeral she had almost spat out Rosten’s name and Green could feel her suppressed fury. Lucas’s death and Rosten’s letter had torn the scab off the old wound, exposing it raw and bleeding to the open air. More than talk, she needed time to heal.
After two weeks of inner debate and doubt, however, he found himself back on the road to Navan, hoping his message would ultimately bring her peace. The day was crisp and clear, but the March sun held no warmth as it glared off the snowy fields. Parked in Marilyn’s drive behind her ancient Honda was an unfamiliar pickup with stacks of folded cardboard boxes in the back.
Green skidded to a stop inches from its bumper and picked a path through the icy ruts to the front door. From inside came the warbling strains of “Yesterday” by The Beatles, sung with more gusto than accuracy. He tapped on the front door and the singing stopped abruptly. After an apparent eternity, he heard shuffling in the front hall and the door cracked open. Marilyn peered out, blinking with apprehension in the dazzling sunlight. Her face flushed deep red as she pulled the door wide.
“Oh my, but you gave me a fright! I’m sorry you had to hear that. I don’t generally inflict my singing on my worst enemy, let alone my very dear friends.”
He stepped into the narrow hallway and was hit by a wave of hot, stale air, redolent with chocolate and gin. Since it was barely noon, he suppressed a twinge of worry. It was not his business; the woman was entitled to use whatever crutch she needed to get through these first few months. He remembered his own father, who had retreated behind a silence so impenetrable after the death of Green’s mother that Green had been powerless to breach the walls. In Sid Green’s case, too, the scars of a previous unbearable loss had been ripped open again. The terrors of the Holocaust, the loss of his first wife and two infant children … All had come flooding back. No one had the right to judge how a survivor gets through the day.
Instead Green merely smiled. “We’ll try a duet next time. Drive both our friends and enemies away.”
She laughed and pushed wisps of white hair from her face. Her cheeks were still red and her eyes shone a little too brightly, but Green detected an inner peace in her expression. A softening of the brittle edges he had seen at the funeral. Perhaps she had even put a little weight on her frail frame.
“You’re looking well,” he said. “The kids still here?”
She tried for a light-hearted shrug. “What are they going to do here? Get in my hair? Make more work for me with all that cooking and washing up? They have no friends out here anymore, and truth be told, not many left in Ottawa either. When the trial ended, they both couldn’t wait to get away. Start fresh. Can’t blame them, can you?