This Thing of Darkness (29 page)

As Green waited for the elevator, his thoughts already yearned for home. He knew it would be some time yet. He had to visit the injured patrol officer in hospital first, to express his regret and to see how the young man was coping. He had been at Lindsay's side when the poor girl had died, and Green knew the terror of that moment would haunt him long after his broken bones had healed.

After that, there was the Heart Institute before he could even contemplate the comforts of home. How he wished Sharon was there. He wanted to discuss Omar with her in order to get her opinion on his abuse and his repressed rage. Would such a person, passionately committed to the principles of non-violence but faced with impossibly conflicting feelings for the woman who had borne him, who both loved him and hated him, who soothed him and beat him... Would such a man be capable of explosive rage committed in a kind of automaton state? Afterwards, would he block out all memory of the attack, so that he truly believed himself innocent?

Green knew what Sharon would say—an unequivocal yes. He'd watched enough expert psychiatrists on the stand and studied enough abnormal psychology in his graduate criminology courses to know all about the phenomenon of displacement. The technical term for scapegoating, in which a person who can't tolerate their anger at one person, displaces it onto someone else instead. Tyrants the world over used it to keep their restive subjects in line. Hitler had been proof of how well it could work.

Green also knew the mind was capable of amazing distortions. It would block out intolerable memories, and in extreme cases it could literally split itself in parts. Dissociation this severe usually happened only after prolonged, horrific abuse with no means of escape except through detaching oneself mentally from the experience. He wasn't sure he understood it all, but Sharon had described several such patients over the years. Sometimes the abused patients had created alternative personalities, and in less extreme cases they had simply wiped the hours or days of abuse from their memories. Could Omar have done that?

If Omar was charged, the Crown or the Defence might seek formal psychiatric assessment, either as a means of challenging his competence and criminal intent, or as a means of explaining the viciousness of the attack by a heretofore peaceful young man. But meanwhile, in a pinch, Sharon might be able to shed considerable light on the case. He resigned himself to being patient and waiting for her to return home from work.

The elevator door slid open, and Levesque stepped out with a cherubic young man in tow. He was clean-shaven and spit-polished, sporting a navy blue suit and matching powder blue tie, and on his face was a beatific grin that looked pasted on and wobbly at the corners. Levesque herself wore a grin, but hers was real. Triumphant.

Green stood his ground, one hand on the elevator door. “Hello, Sergeant Levesque.”

She nodded and tried to sidle past. Green blocked the man and extended his hand. “I'm Inspector Green. And you are...?”

“Adrian Crugar.” The man pumped Green's hand, making his teeth rattle.

A scowl replaced Levesque's triumphant grin. “Mr. Crugar thinks he may know the identity of our mystery woman,” she muttered.

“Oh?” Green arched an eyebrow. A John perhaps, despite the born-again smile?

“Well, I'm not a hundred per cent sure,” Adrian interjected. “It's not a very clear photo, and I haven't seen her in a few years. If it isn't her, I don't want to get her in trouble. She's had more than her share.”

Green turned and gestured down the hall toward one of the interview rooms. The squad room was almost empty in the late Saturday afternoon, but there was a lone detective pecking at his computer in the middle. Hoping to pry much more out of him than an identification, Green wanted Adrian Crugar to relax without distractions. As if determined not to let Green take over, Levesque led the way.

Once they were settled in the interview room, Levesque laid the photo on the table. The Ident photographer had done her best to clean up the image, but it was still shadowy. With the woman's face partially obscured by her hair, Green thought a definitive identification might take a miracle.

Adrian was frowning unhappily. “See, she didn't have long hair when I knew her, and she wasn't that thin. It's the way she is holding herself, that tilt of her chin, that makes me think... You don't have any other photos of her I could look at?”

Levesque was shaking her head when Green interrupted. “Maybe you can play him that section of the video tape. Sometimes movement helps.”

Adrian's eyes lit up. “Yeah.”

Levesque half-rose, looking from Green to Crugar warily. She seemed to find no way to refuse, for she headed out the door. Green reached for her file. A brief glance showed that she'd recorded no details about the young man beyond his name. He clicked open her pen. “Just some information for our records, sir?”

The man supplied his full name, date of birth, an address in the far-flung eastern suburb of Orleans, and employment as an assistant loans officer at Scotiabank in Orleans. The man lives and works in Orleans, Green thought, a long way from the inner city throb of the Byward Market, but only a short hop across the open pastures of the Greenbelt from Beacon Hill. He was about to ask if he ever went to Beacon Hill when the door opened and Levesque reappeared, carrying her laptop and a
CD
. She shot Green a suspicious look but said nothing.

Together they hunched over the laptop and watched the grainy images move across the screen. As the prostitute appeared, first her stiletto boots, white jeans, stylish shoulder bag and finally her fur jacket and swoop of hair, Green heard Adrian suck in his breath. He sat awhile in silence once the scrap of tape was done.

“Oh, my goodness.” Adrian's chin wobbled, and tears brimmed. “What has happened to her?”

“Do you recognize her?” Levesque asked.

He nodded, sucking breath into his lungs. “I think it's Caitlin. I—I gave her that handbag.”

“Caitlin who?”

“Well, probably O'Malley now.”

“Spell it.” Levesque took down every letter. “Do you know her address?”

He shook his head. “I only know her parents' place. They live in Rothwell Heights. Patrick O'Malley is a big name attorney.”

Rothwell Heights was an exclusive enclave of wealthy homes on huge natural lots near the Ottawa River. Certainly a neighbourhood befitting a “big name” attorney. More importantly, it was adjacent to Beacon Hill and quite possibly on the same bus route. Patrick O'Malley's name rang a loud bell in Green's memory. A specialist in personal injury litigation, Patrick O'Malley sued people for a living, which would go far towards financing a home in Rothwell Heights. There was another distant bell ringing in Green's memory as well, but he couldn't place it. Annoyed, he rifled through his thoughts.

“How do you know Caitlin O'Malley?” Levesque was asking.

“I used to be married to her. The smartest, most exciting girl I've ever known. We were both too young, and her father never approved. Caitlin had...a gift, but she couldn't always harness it. It scared her sometimes, overwhelmed her and threw her off course.” He paused, his eyes narrowing at the pain of the memory. “She developed a few problems, and her father had a different idea of how to help her. I thought a loving husband, a supportive community and a trust in God's greater plan would get her through it, but her father wanted her stuffed full of drugs.”

Green started as the memory clicked into place. Caitlin O'Malley! One of the six beneficiaries of Rosenthal's will! His thoughts raced afield.

Levesque did not appear to have made the connection as she plowed ahead. “Do you know anything about her recent activities? Her current whereabouts?”

Adrian shook his head. “I haven't seen her in four years. She had a breakdown, and her father took me to court. He had himself declared responsible for her health care and got a court order barring me from seeing her. I was a danger to her health and safety.” A flash of anger tightened Adrian's jaw, but he quickly quelled it. “That made the breakdown so much worse. I loved her. I never made her feel like a failure the way her father did. Who was to say she was crazy? All through history, God has spoken to a select few. We used to call them saints, not lunatics.”

Levesque pursed her lips. “Yes, but science—”

Green nudged her foot imperceptibly, but Adrian was not distracted. “Definitions only. Evil is in all of us. Caitlin felt so alone trying to fight it until she met me. When she lost me...” He took a deep, steadying breath to fight back fresh tears. “I'm sorry, this is something that has haunted me for years. I should have fought harder for her, but I was just out of school, and I had no money and no friends in the courts like he had. But I think when she lost me—when I gave up the fight—she lost her only friend. Her only hope.” He gestured weakly to the laptop screen. “And now look at her.”

Green tried to recall what else he knew about Patrick O'Malley. The man was a local success story and philanthropist who'd been consolidating his network of friends in high places since his early years at St. Patrick's, once Ottawa's most prestigious Catholic college. Adrian Crugar wouldn't have stood a chance.

Masking his excitement, he stepped into the silence. “What was her diagnosis, do you know?”

Adrian dragged himself back from the past to focus on Green's words. “Lots of them. Schizophrenic, bipolar, borderline—whatever that is. How she hated the labels and all the different meds the doctors tried. They made her fat, they gave her the shakes, they made her feel weird inside. She was afraid they were killing her brain cells.”

“Does the name Dr. Samuel Rosenthal mean anything to you?”

“The man who was murdered?” When Green nodded, he shook his head.

“He was never one of her treating psychiatrists?”

“Not that I know of. But once her father cut me off, I never knew what was going on. Friends would pass stuff on, rumours they'd heard. She's back in school, she's earned her PhD, she's on the streets. It seemed like a real roller coaster. She probably had lots of psychiatrists, because I'm sure Mr. O'Malley fired them every time she had trouble. Dr. Rosenthal could have been one of them.”

Green studied the man closely. He looked genuinely distressed, and he had one of those open, honest faces that made lying impossible. Yet there was something... something he was holding back. “What else do you want to tell us?” he asked gently.

Adrian dropped his gaze. Flushed. “She phoned me six months ago, the first time in four years. I didn't speak to her. I was out, and she left a message on my machine. She sounded good, she said she wanted me to know she was doing well and finally taking charge of her life. She'd found her own lawyer and was going to stand up to her father. That was all.”

“Did you call her back?”

He flushed even more deeply. “I was just starting a new relationship, and I thought... God help me, Caitlin can be so draining. But the new relationship didn't work out, and when I went to return her call, the number was out of service.”

Twenty

L
evesque navigated the unmarked Impala with one hand. A misty drizzle coated the landscape in a drab grey sheen, and Green peered through the rain-spattered windshield, trying to read the house numbers.

It had been Levesque's idea to pay a cold call to Caitlin O'Malley's father, even though evening was almost upon them, her daughter's skates were a distant memory, and she claimed to have a dinner engagement. Green had been champing at the bit to follow up on Adrian Crugar's lead, but once they'd escorted the young man out, he had deliberately refrained from suggesting it. Mary Sullivan's indictment still rang in his ears. “You demanded it!” His obsession had already cost his friend dearly. Nothing on the job was worth that price.

Whether Levesque had sensed his underlying impatience to follow up or whether she herself had caught the bug, this time it was she who was not content to delegate the job, she who insisted on doing it herself.

Police work did not often bring Green into the cluster of winding, hilly streets known as Rothwell Heights, where sprawling mansions were tucked artfully into the hillsides, camouflaged by huge trees and sweeping gardens. Green thought of the decayed, litter-strewn corner where Screech and the mystery hooker spent their nights. If Caitlin O'Malley was that woman, her life had gone into free fall.

Mental illness could do that, of course.

“Here it is,” Levesque said as she drew to a stop at the curb. Green looked at the house, a rambling, west-coast style bungalow set well back from the road. Behind it, thick woods dropped away into a ravine of reds and golds muted under the grey sky. A silver
BMW
sports car sat in the driveway in front of the three-car garage. Green scanned the windows but saw no movement behind the sheer curtains as he and Levesque strode up to the door.

“Your call,” he said quietly as they rang the bell, sending a melodic church bell peeling through the house. A small dog set up a frenzied barking, obscuring all other sound. No one answered the door, however. Green stepped back to peer in the front bay window while Levesque leaned once more on the bell. The dog reached a frantic pitch just inside, partially masking the sound of the automatic garage door. The roar of a car startled them, and they swung around to see a late model Lexus
SUV
shoot backwards down the drive and swerve into the street, narrowly missing their Impala. Green caught a brief glimpse of a thin, long-haired woman behind the wheel.

“Sacrifice!”
Levesque shouted, sprinting back down to the Impala. She had started the engine and was gunning away from the curb before Green could even yank his door shut. He clung to the shoulder handle while she slewed through the twists of the winding road. The tires slithered as they struggled for purchase on the pavement slick with rain and sodden leaves.