This Thing of Darkness (11 page)

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

B
rian 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.

“I should be getting paid. Police consultant,” he laughed, wiping his greasy hands on a rag hanging on the handlebar. “Any word on who killed Sam?”

Green shook his head and chose his words carefully. Tolner had a love of gossip and far too much time on his hands. For someone as energetic and outgoing as him, it was a dangerous combination. Green erected the standard police stonewall.

“We're pursuing a number of leads. But so far we haven't been able to connect with his son.”

Tolner's eyebrows arched. “He's a suspect?”

Green shook his head again, intrigued that should be Tolner's first thought. “He's next of kin.”

He thought the man looked faintly disappointed. “Well, I haven't seen the son in years. Not since the wife's funeral.”

“And how were things between father and son then?”

“Tense.” Tolner hesitated. “I don't think it's easy growing up with a psychiatrist for a father. Especially one who specializes in young people. And Sam—may he rest in peace —Sam could be arrogant.”

“Know-it-all?”

Tolner rolled his eyes. “And how. But David was no pushover either. Wore blinkers his whole life through so he would see only what he wanted to. Nearly killed the family dog once, I remember, kicked it down the stairs in a fit of temper. The fights in that house must have been stupendous. Poor Evie was the glue who kept that family together.”

And when she was gone, it flew apart, Green thought. However, that was no reason for murder years later, and that line of speculation was better saved until Levesque's team had located the son. He switched gears, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Do you know if there have been any threats or attacks around the neighbourhood against elderly people? Or Jews?”

Tolner's eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Attacks against Jews? You think it was a hate crime?”

“No, we don't,” Green said, moving quickly to squelch Tolner's overactive imagination. “I'm casting a broad net, looking at all possibilities. You hear things. Anyone had a minor attack or threat?”

“What's an attack? ‘Hitler should have finished the job, pig'? We get a few of those, mostly those of us who wear a
yarmulke
or other visible sign.”

“Anything worse? Intimidation? Physical threats?”

Tolner bent over his bike and spun the wheel, watching its alignment. “Nothing much. Every time Israel does something not so nice to the Palestinians, we feel it on the streets. Mostly a glare here, a slur there.” He raised his head thoughtfully to study Green. “Intimidation is a subtle thing, Mike. A group of youths come the other way down the street, black kids swaggering along, or Arabs talking loud and excitedly, and I feel afraid. They stare me down, and I want to take my
kippeh
off, cross the street and keep my eyes on the ground. I don't. I force myself to walk towards them, and in my head I pretend they're a group of chattering school girls. I smile at them, and I step out of their way. So far nothing has ever happened to me. Not even a muttered racial slur. But they own that little strip of street that we're on, and boy, you feel it.”

“What if you didn't step aside? What if you tried to stare them down?”

“I'm not fool enough to test the idea. You're a cop, you know all about this top dog game. They don't want to beat you up, they just want you under their heel. All the rest—the Swastikas on the graves, the eggs on the synagogue door—is designed to further put you down. So they can build themselves up.”

Green nodded. He was very familiar with the psyche of the bully and the street punk, who used the only tools at hand —their size, numbers and body language— to capture some of the power that belonged to others. It was primitive, caveman psychology, but on a dark street corner, all of us were hardwired to respond. Fight or flight.

Green could almost hear Sharon shaking her head and muttering “you men”. Since the caveman days, men had banded together, puffed up their team and strutted in front of the other side, testing their power and comparing their strength. Society was more complex now, and power was measured not just in brute strength but in money, possessions, jobs and trophy women, but that basic instinct still lay just below the surface. How did a man feel when his power faded? When he was alone, old and frail, no longer with the job and status he had enjoyed? How would he respond to a group of young men swaggering down the street as if they owned it all? Flight, like Tolner?