This Thing of Darkness (14 page)

But the biggest problem was the hole in his memory. How could he make up a convincing story that covered all the angles if he couldn't remember what he'd done? Over the past couple of days, hoping to jog his memory, he'd read every word he could get his hands on about the murder of the old man on Rideau Street. There wasn't much. The cops were playing this really close to the chest. Either that, or they didn't know fuck all, and they were just shooting around in the dark.

There was lots of stuff on Sam Rosenthal the guy himself. Former shrink, former professor at the university, nice guy who believed in old-fashioned talking to people instead of pumping them full of drugs. Omar could relate to that. Their doctor wanted to put his mother on Prozac to stop the nightmares that woke her screaming and made her run all over the house hiding knives, but his father said over his dead body. He sat up with her himself, trying to rub a giant eraser over her mind.

Maybe if there were more doctors like this Rosenthal, there'd be some help for her. Omar got to feeling sorry for the guy and thinking whoever did this should pay. He hoped to hell it wasn't him. How could he smash a guy's head in and not remember a fucking thing? It wasn't like he got in so many fights that they got to be no big deal. He usually tried to stay out of fights because they scared him, and one fight leads to another and pretty soon it's what everyone expects of you. But this time he remembered fists, a long flashing metal thing that seemed like a knife, and lots of blood. All over himself. His nose had bled, he was sure of that now, but he couldn't remember why.

That put him in serious trouble when he had to face down the cops. Which should be very soon, he realized as the police station came into view—an ugly, concrete shithouse as menacing as the cops in front of him.

In fact, they stuck him in an interview room, brought him a glass of water, and left him. He'd been hustled out of the house before he could grab his cellphone, and there was no clock in the stuffy little room where they put him—nothing but three plastic chairs and a table—so he had no idea how long he'd been waiting. He suspected the bastards did it on purpose. Let him sweat, let him imagine the worst. He shut his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and vowed to outwait them. This is one time that his father's silent treatment would come in handy.

“He's looking way too calm,” Sullivan observed from inside the video control room, where he, Levesque and Green stood watching. Green was not so sure. The man was too still, as if it were a deliberate effort of will.

“Anything from the search yet?” Sullivan asked.

Levesque shook her head. “All his shoes and clothes are being sent right to Ident, so we won't know for a bit. Cunningham is cutting out some samples for the lab and said he'd do the luminol right away. However, all the clothes were washed.”

“If there was blood on them, luminol would still show it.”

“Ruin the
DNA
, though,” she replied. “But one pair of black sneakers looked to have stains on them, so we may get lucky there.”

“None of the other items were in the house?”

“They're still looking, but so far they've discovered nothing. Except a baseball bat, but it's so covered in cobwebs, I don't think it's the murder weapon.”

“Did anyone ask him about his black eye?”

“No,” Levesque replied as if in triumph, “but believe me, I will.”

Green was still watching Omar, who had now opened his eyes and was surreptitiously studying the walls and ceiling until his one good eye stared straight out at them from the screen. Understanding dawned in it. It shuttered, partly in fear, partly in defiance.

“How long are you going to let him stew?” Green asked.

Levesque too was watching him. “At least until the search and the luminol results are in. Maybe longer.”

Green nodded. There was still too much defiance in that gaze. Not enough apprehension. The police computer database had four hits on the man, but all as witness or bystander. The guns and gangs unit did not have him listed even as a gang affiliate. This was his first time inside a police station. It shouldn't take long for the defiant act to crumble.

Green was already late for a community outreach meeting, and he was about to head off to put in an appearance when there was a sharp knock at the door. Levesque opened it to admit Cunningham himself, holding an evidence bin containing some folded clothes and a pair of crisp new black basketball shoes.

“Some blood on the right shoe near the toe, and on the soles of both shoes,” he announced deadpan, as though he were reciting stock prices. Cunningham showed excitement only in the slightest lift of his eyebrow.

In contrast, Levesque pumped the air. “Can you tell us anything about the blood? Sprayed? Dropped?”

“I don't want to second-guess my blood spatter guy—”

“Come on, Lyle,” Sullivan exclaimed. “Live dangerously. We've got our suspect in there waiting to be blown away.”

Cunningham pursed his lips and pointed at the shoe thoughtfully. “The blood on the toe looks like a smear, like the shoe was rubbed against something bloody. The blood on the soles is pretty thick—it penetrated the cracks in the tread. I'd say your man stepped in a pool of uncoagulated blood.”

Green could see the disappointment on Levesque's face. Drops or sprayed flecks of blood would put Omar on the scene as the assault was ongoing, whereas smears could have been obtained afterwards by simple contact with the body before the blood dried. It still left Omar with a lot to explain, but it did not clinch his guilt.

“I've collected a dozen samples of the blood to send to the
RCMP
lab. They tell me they can have type by Friday,
DNA
by six weeks.”

Green rolled his eyes. Funding and staffing shortages were the bane of criminal investigations, delaying the discovery of crucial leads until witnesses had either forgotten or disappeared. The lab results would solidify the case for court, but meanwhile they'd proceed as if the blood was Rosenthal's.

“What about the clothes?” Levesque nodded to the folded clothes, already moving on from her disappointment. Sullivan was proving right about her skill.

“There had been blood on them, for sure. A heavier concentration on this shirt. Minute traces on the jeans, but nothing localized. If I had to guess—” Cunningham glared at Sullivan to express his distaste of guesswork, “I'd say the blood transferred to the jeans, maybe during storage.”

All three detectives digested this, trying to visualize likely scenarios. Levesque spoke first. “What was the pattern on the shirt?”

Cunningham shook his head. “There we do have to wait for microscopic analysis. Bigger than sprays or smears, I think. It looks like the blood penetrated deep into the fibres.”

Green brightened. They were still a long way from Omar wielding the murder weapon, but he knew that analysis of the blood patterns, even on washed fabrics, could establish how and when the blood had been transferred from victim to perpetrator with amazing precision. He looked at Omar, who had peeled off his hoodie. He sat staring at the wall and flicking the occasional wary glance at the camera. He was struggling to hang on to his defiance, but Green could see the glossy sheen on his chocolate skin and the trickle of sweat at his temples.

“How much did you jack the heat up?” he asked.

Levesque smiled. “Wouldn't dream of it, sir. But he looks ready, don't you think?”

She gave him an extra five minutes while she checked her notes, before she gathered up the evidence bins, her laptop and her clipboard and headed down the hall. Green could feel Sullivan's gaze upon him as the two of them settled in to watch.

“You've changed your mind,” Sullivan said.

“About the Somalis? I agree, it's looking bad.”

“I mean about Marie Claire. She's growing on you.”

Green considered the observation in surprise. Levesque was not his kind of detective. She seemed too casual, too cocky, too quick to form conclusions and close off the less obvious lines of inquiry. But yes, he had to admire her instincts and her unerring nose for the route that yielded results. Perhaps she was on the right track. Maybe after all his years behind a desk, he was losing his touch, wandering into blind alleys and wasting valuable time and resources on dead ends.

In the interview room, she set the clipboard and laptop on the table and the bins on the floor underneath. She smiled companionably as she recited the interview details for the video record and cautioned him about his right to remain silent and consult counsel. Omar was sitting upright now. He shook his head at the offer of a lawyer, but his expression was wary.

Levesque leaned back in her chair and looked around the room. “Sorry about the delay, Omar. A number of things came to light in the searches that I needed to verify.”

Omar shrugged. Green saw his uninjured eye blink several times in rapid succession.

“Last Saturday night. Tell me about your Saturday night.”

The blinking increased. “Nothing to tell. I was home studying. I think my father already told you that.”

“Where were you born?”

Omar grew very still. “Somalia.” A pause. “So?”

“How long have you been in Canada?”

“Since I was four. I'm a Canadian citizen—same rights as everyone else. Besides, my father's a Canadian.”

“Have you got a job?”

“I'm still in high school.”

“High school.” She let the silence run. “You're how old?”

Omar scowled. “Twenty. I had some trouble, but I'm finishing this year.”

“What trouble?”

“I failed a few things.”

“How many things?”

He shifted irritably. “You going to ask me about something or not?”

“Relax, Omar. I'm just trying to understand why you were studying Saturday night, when every twenty year-old man I know would be out partying. Is your father on your case?”

“Yeah, my dad's strict. He doesn't want me to screw up.”

“What does he want you to do after high school? College?”

“Join the military. Army, like him. Get an education and do good stuff around the world.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Pay's good, and they're looking for visible minorities. Dad says I could go far.”

It sounded like a rote recitation, a mantra that his father had drilled into his head, but not his heart. Something about the young man didn't ring true. He tried to act like a punk and talk like a punk, and yet, sometimes in an unguarded moment, in his choice of words and grammar, a hint of intelligence shone through. Green wondered if Levesque saw it.

He watched her slow smile. “But that sure is different from your friends. Like Nadif.”

Omar's eye popped wide. He stiffened, as if he feared some kind of trap. “Nadif and I are not... We just hang out, that's all.”

“Is that what your other friends will tell me?”

“Well...yeah, we hang out.”

“Since Nadif is on trial for attempted murder, I bet your father's not too pleased about that. Not too good for your chances with the military.”

Omar didn't seem to know what to say, so he stayed quiet. Levesque reached below the table and brought out the bin with Rosenthal's shoes. Green scrutinized Omar's face as she placed them in front of him. No reaction immediately, then faint puzzlement. His brow drew down over his swollen eye. He went on the offensive.

“What's that?”

“You tell me.”

“I don't know anything about them. Shoes, that's all.”

“We have a witness who says you sold them to him.”

Omar snorted. “I don't sell stuff. And where would I get shoes like that?”

“That's the question.” Levesque waited, but Omar didn't bite. He looked too relaxed for Green's liking.

“Who told you I sold them?” he demanded finally.

“Nadif Hassan.”

The young man's serenity vanished in a spasm of panic. “He's lying.”

Levesque leaned forward to point to the seams of the sole. “This shoe has blood on it, which can be matched to Samuel Rosenthal, the man who was killed near Rideau Street early Sunday morning. Nadif Hassan had them hidden in his house, and he claims he bought them from you.”

“Bullshit.” Omar crossed his arms. “I wasn't even out that night.”

Levesque didn't argue, merely opened her laptop and replayed the scenario with the pawn shop video just as she had with Nadif, with the same effect. Omar finally admitted to having sneaked out without his father's knowledge on Saturday night to go for a short walk with his friends. However, he denied all knowledge of Rosenthal.

“How did you get those bruises on your face?” Levesque asked.

“I tripped and fell on my way home.” Omar picked at his fingers. “I did—we did—have something to drink.”