Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (210 page)

“It was worn by the victim.”

“What can I say? Some men...”

“He had a wife. At least, did have.”

“Then maybe it’s hers.”

Green turned the idea over in his mind. It made sense. Even the inscription
To life and hope, my darling
could have had special meaning to them as his wife struggled with cancer, and when she died—the love of his life in whose memory he had endowed an entire cancer research chair—he had taken to wearing it himself. Just as he continued to wear his wedding ring despite the passage of years.

“I wonder why the killer didn’t steal it too,” Green said. “He took the poor man’s shoes, watch, and wedding ring.”

“Maybe he didn’t see it. These are normally worn inside the shirt.”

“No, it was lying on the sidewalk beside his body.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“What?”

“It was damaged. The chain was broken, and it takes more force than you think to break those things, like it was ripped from his neck. Plus the surface was bent and scratched. I found tiny particles of sand embedded in the gold.”

Green tried to picture the chain on the ground. “Maybe it got stepped on in the struggle.”

“Possibly, but the amount of scratching and the way the sand was embedded, it was almost like someone ground it in with their shoe. A pretty violent act, yanking it from the guy’s neck and grinding it into the pavement.”

That image stayed with Green afterwards, troubling him. The whole attack had been unusually vicious, beginning with the bat smashing the old man repeatedly when he was already down. Then the rings had been pried free, the Star of David ripped off and deliberately crushed into the ground.

Was there a message in this, or was he being paranoid?

He reached for the phone and dialled Sullivan’s cell. The staff sergeant answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” Green asked.

“Over in Vanier. About to go for lunch.” Sullivan sounded wary.

“Meet me at the Rideau Street crime scene. Then we’ll go to Nate’s Deli.”

“The crime scene’s already been released, Green. There will be a hundred people walking over it.”

“Doesn’t matter. Humour me. There’s a big, juicy smoked meat on rye in it for you.”

Sullivan chuckled. “You springing for it, I’ll have two.”

Green printed off the stills Levesque had made from the pawn shop security tape, tucked them into a folder, and headed downstairs to sign out his staff car. He parked a block from the corner where Rosenthal had been beaten and walked slowly up Rideau Street, passing under the security camera of the pawn shop about sixty feet from the alleyway of the crime scene. He studied the photos and tried to recall the movements of the four young suspects. They had been drunk, jostling one another, oblivious to their surroundings. If the old man was standing sixty feet in front of them, they hadn’t noticed him yet. That seemed unlikely. Most people walking down Rideau Street after midnight were instinctively on guard.

Sergeant Levesque had dissected every inch of the security tape for the night in question. Besides Screech and the young black males, dozens of other parties had passed by. Couples, singles, hookers waiting for the patrons from nearby bars. Levesque’s team had been trying to track them all down, but in truth no one believed any of the others were guilty. Two were simple working girls, a couple were late-night revellers and still others looked like students from nearby University of Ottawa, stumbling home to their dorms. None had carried bats, none had looked poised for violence. None of them looked like skinheads or white supremacists who would target Jews for sport.

This morning, Screech had taken up his usual position cross-legged on the sidewalk about half a block from the liquor store. He had an empty Tim Hortons cup today, and kept his cart close at his side. The Ident Unit had confiscated his bloody sleeping bag but had given him a brand new one in its stead, so he was taking no chances. At his feet was a stack of stained pencil drawings, mostly poor imitations of Native animal art. Green doubted he sold many, but it allowed him some dignity.

Green had crossed paths with him in court a few times in his earlier days, but Screech had a vague look this morning, as if not enough brain cells were firing for him to recognize anyone. Green squatted in front of him and introduced himself, trying to ignore the stench. “Have the cops been around to ask you about what you witnessed the night the old man died?”

It proved too long a sentence, because Screech wrinkled up his nose and presented a gap-toothed smile. “Spare a loonie for a dying man?” he asked, his head bobbing as he extended his Tim Hortons cup.

Green extracted a ten dollar bill, held it out and tried again. “The night the old man was killed, did you see anything?”

“Eh?”

“Screech, come on. Did you see or hear the fight?”

Screech’s smile fled, and he whipped his head back and forth, spittle flying. He eyed the bill, but made no move to take it.

“Where were you?”

“Behind the wall.” He pointed to the brick building of the grocery store up the block. “Didn’t want no trouble.”

“From who? Was somebody giving trouble?”

Screech clamped his cracked lips shut. Green took out the photos and laid them all out on the sidewalk in front of him. “Did you see any of these people?”

Screech flicked a glance at the line-up, then averted his eyes. “Didn’t see nothing.”

“Come on, now. We’ve helped you out a lot in the past. Got you this new sleeping bag, bought you food, we even buy your drawings sometimes. If you can help us out this one time...” He registered the fear in Screech’s eyes. The street was a dangerous place for the homeless, particularly in the dead of night. Scores were settled in brutal ways. Green tucked the ten dollars into Screech’s shirt pocket and softened his voice. “I won’t tell anyone you told me. But you saw what they did to the poor old man. I just want whoever did it off the streets.”

Screech cast a wary eye up the street then bent over to study the photos one by one. Green said nothing as nearby an idling transport truck spewed hot fumes into the air. Screech paused at the four black males. “I seen them.”

“That night?”

“Yeah. Drunker than me. Hassling some hooker.” He gave his gap-toothed grin.

“Is that hooker in the pictures?”

Screech shook his head. Too fast, Green thought. “What was her name?”

“Don’t know her. Not a regular.”

“Did any of these kids have a baseball bat?”

“Eh?”

“A baseball bat? Did you see one?”

“Didn’t see nothing. Didn’t want no trouble.”

Green could almost picture Screech hiding, anxious to stay out of the way of four drunk young men fuelled by testosterone. “I know you didn’t, and you’re doing great. Did you see anyone else in these photos?”

Reluctantly, the man returned to the photos. He moved along the line-up, then shook his head and shoved himself away. “Nope.”

Green thanked him, packed up the photos, and headed up the street. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed, although a small tatter of it still hung from the pole of a nearby bus stop. The alleyway had been hosed clean of all traces of blood and brains. People walked over the spot without a care, sneakers shuffling, snakeskin boots clicking, stilettos tapping a pert rhythm. A bus pulled up and disgorged another crowd, which surged forward over the place of the old man’s death.

Green walked over to the dusty patch of weeds where the body had been dragged. A short distance but still a very cold-blooded act when you’d just pulverised the man’s brain. The body had been rolled on its side against the concrete wall, likely so that it would appear to the casual passerby like a drunk sleeping it off.

This killer was cool and collected, anticipating the angles.

Green studied the concrete wall of the building. It was spray-painted with gang tags, like dogs marking a hydrant. The Market was a free-for-all. No turf was safe.

“Recognize them?” came a deep voice from behind him.

Green turned to see Sullivan. The big man was looking rumpled and tired, flushed, as if his blood pressure was up again. “Some,” Green said. “Not all. The city is getting new wannabe gangs every day.”

“I don’t think the tags have anything to do with the case,” Sullivan said. “None of the paint is fresh.”

“Still, are there any neo-Nazi tags among them?”

Sullivan frowned, his dusky colour deepening.“Neo-Nazi? Where did that come from?”

“Rosenthal was a Jew. That’s a target for some people, especially after a dozen beers.”

“Not obviously a Jew. No
yarmulke.”

“Maybe they spotted the Star of David. Or, with his expensive clothes and jewellery, he looked as if he had money. For some, that stereotype is enough.”

Sullivan leaned against the wall, silhouetted against the midday press of Rideau Street. Belching transport trucks, growling buses, and lunch goers scurrying along the sidewalk. He studied Green thoughtfully. “I assume you have a reason for this line of inquiry?”

Green broke into a sheepish grin.“A couple of flimsy ones. The viciousness of the attack, the overkill, and the fact the killer stomped Rosenthal’s Jewish star into the ground. Didn’t steal it but destroyed it. It smacks of contempt.”

Sullivan raised an eyebrow. He looked skeptical, but he was too good a detective not to consider the less obvious. “I’ll ask the Hate Crimes guys if they have a lead on any Neo-Nazi groups hanging out around here.”

Green nodded. “Ask if there’s been any reports of vandalism or harassment. These guys don’t usually start with a full-fledged attack.”

They don’t usually end with one either, he thought with a chill.

Seven

Brian Sullivan was on his cellphone when their smoked meat sandwiches arrived, thick, fragrant and spilling over with succulent pink meat. Green picked his up in both hands, sank his teeth in and closed his eyes in ecstasy.

Sullivan glared and covered his mouthpiece. “Nothing should interfere with a man’s lunch.”

Green stifled a chuckle with his mouth full. “What are you talking about? At least we’re getting lunch. That’s progress.”

Sullivan was about to reply when the party came back on the other end of the line. He listened a moment, thanked the individual and snapped his phone shut. Without a word he picked up his sandwich and shovelled it into his mouth. Green watched him chew, shovel in another mouthful and slurp down half his coke.

“Nu?”
Green said finally.

“Mmm?”

“What did Deepak say?”

“Not much. There have been no major anti-Semitic incidents in Lowertown recently. The usual spray-painted Swastikas, eggs thrown at the synagogue door, but nothing directed against people. There are some white power punks strutting around—you couldn’t call them a gang—but they’re mostly targeting blacks and Arabs.”

“Is it a similar
MO
? Beating with a baseball bat?”

Sullivan shook his head.“Mostly threats with knife or gun, sometimes a minor beating meant to scare the guys off. Or pay them back. Mind you, the Somalis are doing some nasty shit of their own.”

Green nodded, thinking of the high-profile case currently before the courts in which a young Somali had knifed a Lebanese youth allegedly for making a pass at his girlfriend. Too much testosterone and not enough purpose. However, he knew that most incidents of racism and anti-Semitism went unreported. Whether from fear of further retaliation or lack of confidence in the police response, most victims just shrugged and endured.

He persisted. “Did these white power punks have unusual tags, like the ones at the crime scene?”

“Deepak is emailing me their most common graffiti, and we’ll take it from there.” Sullivan belched, then fished a Rolaids from his pocket and popped it into his mouth with a rueful smile. “Can’t do this like the old days.”

They ate in silence, savouring the last of their sandwiches. After a few minutes, Deepak’s email of recent graffiti popped up on Sullivan’s cellphone. The two men scrolled through the tiny attachments. Art, or subtlety, was not the Neo-Nazis’ strong point. Most of the tags were stylized swastikas or the skull-and-crossbones insignia of Hitler’s
SS
. None of them looked like the graffiti on the wall at the crime scene. But Green couldn’t dispel his sense of unease.

“I think Sergeant Levesque should get photos of that graffiti over to the Hate Crimes Unit anyway. See if we can connect it to any group here or elsewhere.”

“Waste of time, but why not?” Sullivan shrugged as he drained his coke. With a grin, he wiped his lips and crumpled up his napkin. “This buys you a bit of wasted time. Thanks, Mike.”

Green suppressed his annoyance. “Muslims can get into some pretty serious anti-Semitism too,” he added. “Including the scary belief that all Jews are legitimate targets in the holy war to destroy Israel.”

“That’s what most anti-Semitic incidents are about these days. Muslim kids, not white power punks. Must be nice to be so popular.”

Green managed a wry smile. “As they say, couldn’t God choose someone else for a change? I’m not saying it was an anti-Semitic attack. Just that it’s an angle we shouldn’t overlook.”

Sullivan gathered up his cellphone and his jacket. “I’ll pass it on. She’s good, Green. Let her do her job.”

Green watched the big man thread his way through the crowded tables. He looked marginally more relaxed now, but Green knew he had a lot on his plate, with several dozen active cases to supervise and other units to liaise with. Unlike Green, who trusted no one to work a case as well as him, Sullivan was a natural leader who thrived on coordinated teamwork. However, Sergeant Levesque also had a lot on her plate. Green didn’t doubt that she would follow up, but he chafed at the low priority she was likely to assign to the anti-Semitism angle. It would be a simple matter for Green to find out whether Jews were being targeted in the old inner-city neighbourhood, which had once been heavily Jewish but was now taken over by more recent immigrant groups.

Rabbi Tolner looked surprised to see him for the second time in two days. This time Green found him in the shed at the back of his building, oiling his bicycle. A colourful knitted
yarmulke
had slipped a little on his bald pate.