An Ordinary Decent Criminal (16 page)

“Ecstatic. Then we come to the cops who are in trouble. They could have access to the records and a need to use them. Discredit you and they go free. They could also do the booze, the notes, and maybe the bugging.”

She thought it through. “The booze. I knew I wasn’t thinking about this right. Whoever left the booze knew you had problems. Who knew about you and the booze?”

I laughed but it sounded kind of shaky, even to me. “Well, everyone from my past.”

“Right. But didn’t you say most of them think you’re faking going straight?”

Then it clicked. “Yeah. They all think I’m still drinking. For them, leaving the booze would mean nothing. Whoever left the booze knew I wasn’t drinking and knew it would hurt me.”

“Right. Now, the cops knew that, right?”

She went on. “But. Friends of the dead kids and people from your past wouldn’t know about your problems with booze.”

She finished it briskly. “That means that the cops are the ones who are doing this shit.”

“Why do you figure that? I’m not arguing, but why?”

Claire patted my arm gently as though to say, you’re not really dumb, just slow.

“The simplest solution is always the right one. Except when it isn’t. The cops are the simplest solution.”

“Well. Cops, in general, are pretty simple.” I thought about it and finally nodded. “The idea makes sense.”

“Of course it does.” She paused. “Maybe not plural, maybe singular. One person could do all the stuff we’ve been talking about. So, it could be one cop.”

“Gee. You’re good. Logical, even.”

She accepted the praise modestly and I stood up and took her hand in mine.

“And, as a reward, I hereby award you with an hour of oral sex.”

She followed me upstairs to the bedroom and watched while I took my clothes off. “Two things. What about Fred?”

I grinned and she started to unzip her pants. “Let him get his own date. What’s the second thing?”

She covered her breasts with one arm and blinked wide eyes at me.

“Well, sir, am I getting or giving that hour of head?”

Later Claire kissed my forehead and patted my back.

“Not too bad for an old man.”

“Thanks.”

“A question. Why didn’t you have Thompson lay charges against Walsh as well as the two other cops?”

“That’s complicated. Basically because it’s easier to prove a case against cops of a lower rank. Walsh has a reputation in town as a hero and that’s a hard card to play with a local jury. It’ll be easier for a jury to believe he ordered it or that it happened without his knowledge.”

I wished I had a cigarette, or even a pipe or chewing tobacco. When you’ve stopped smoking, it’s hard to find something to do right after making love. Except sleep, and women hate it when you fall asleep right away, which I think is patently unfair, they should take it as a compliment. ‘She was so good, she took all my energy.’ Claire disagrees, however. She nudged me and I went on.

“I wasn’t asleep. A jury wants cops to be hard on crooks. It appeals to their sense of community outrage. Therefore, they always start with a bias favoring the police. In this case we might be able to convince them that Walsh had nothing to do with the actual beating and then they might end up being mad at him for not reporting it in the first place. Or he might toss the other cops to the wolves and claim he tried to stop them.”

She waited.

“Before it goes to the jury, though, the claim has to go through LERA. Gods knows what they’ll do. From what I can tell, it’s a rat’s nest of political infighting, union favoritism, and bureaucratic favoritism. It’s in the province’s best interests to champion Walsh as a cop who didn’t resort to violence but tried to stop it. In order to do that successfully, though, they have to admit that the beating took place in the first place.”

“You’re right. That’s confusing. So what exactly is LERA?”

“The Law Enforcement Review Agency. Any complaints against cops have to be proved to their satisfaction first. Before it can go to trial.”

“Sounds like double jeopardy.”

“It is. You have to prove a case against the cops before you can try to prove a case against the cops.”

“Shitty. But you’re letting Walsh go, that’s what it sounds like.”

“No. Not really, but I can’t prove he hit me, on top of which, it’s also the truth. Walsh didn’t hit me. Not much, anyway. He convinced Fitzpatrick and Cairns to do the heavy work.”

Fred started to cry downstairs but we both ignored it for a minute.

“You also realize that it’s going to make every other cop hate Walsh by leaving him off the indictment. They’re gonna wonder if he cut a deal somewhere along the way.”

I held her close for a too-brief moment and then went to get Fred.

“The thought never even crossed my mind.”

She kissed me and laughed.

The next day we cleaned the house, read the latest note taped to our front door (which read, “RAPIST!”), and talked things through. We agreed we had to find out more about Walsh, Cairns, Fitzpatrick, and the three dead boys before I could talk to anyone or ask the right questions. Midway through the day, I sent Claire off to find a phone booth and call the archives of the
Winnipeg Free Press
. She came back an hour later, grinning like a teenager. “Mission accomplished,
mon capitaine
.”

“What happened?”

She curtsied. “I was walking by the fire hall and some of the boys were playing volleyball. They stopped and whistled. Very good for morale.”

“I see.”

“They were sweet. Very encouraging.”

“Hmmm. I don’t keep you busy enough.”

“Yep. Now about the
Free Press
: you can’t get into the archives, but copies of back issues are kept in the main library downtown. Both hard copies and stuff on microfilm.”

My face fell. It would take me years to go through back issues without an index of some kind.

“What’s wrong?”

I told her.

“You’re right. That’s probably why I asked for this two-page list of articles involving assorted ne’er-do-wells.”

“For that you get a kiss.”

She accepted and we went back to more mundane household tasks.

By that evening I was feeling more and more nervous about Claire and her date with Elena. It ended with Fred and me following her upstairs as she prepared to go out.

“No, no, you go. Fred and I will be fine.”

Claire had pulled on black stockings and was busy smoothing out a pale gray skirt. I watched her breasts sway and thought dirty thoughts as she looked around for her bra. She smoothed down her hair and glanced around. “Where’s my bra?”

“I don’t know but don’t even think about the hardships we’ll be put through.”

Fred crawled from the closet with the bra held in his gums. It caught momentarily on a loose floorboard and he pulled until it snapped back. Claire took it and handed him off.

“Nice try.”

Fred gurgled and we both sat down to watch Claire get dressed. I changed tack and scratched Fred’s back through his cotton shirt. With the body contact, he sighed and groaned and gurgled.

“So, where you going?”

“Out. Elena didn’t know. I suggested coffee. Anyplace you recommend?”

“Sure. There’s a Greek-run bakery on Main but I don’t know how late it stays open. Good coffee and great pastries.”

She finished dressing and kissed us both. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Fred had crawled off my lap and was wrestling with a ferocious
pillow. As I watched, the pillow began to gain the upper hand and I had to push them both back onto the futon. Outside, Renfield howled in despair. We’d chained him in the yard to remind him that he was, in fact, a dog and not a person, and he bitterly resented the whole thing. I kissed Claire again.

“Have fun.”

Claire came home when the sun was coming up and I met her at the top of the stairs. She hiccupped loudly and held her stomach with both hands.

“Oh my God.”

I took her arm and led her into the bedroom, where she stood and swayed as I pulled her clothes off.

“That was fun.”

She smelled like cigarette smoke and beer and rye whisky. When she was naked, I put her down on the clean sheets and covered her up. There was a fan in the corner of the room and I turned it on for white noise and to get rid of some of the smell, and then I kissed her on the lips, which also tasted of smoke, rye whisky, and beer.

“Hiccup.”

She had already started to snore as I left the room. Downstairs, the sun was shining in brightly through the living room window and I stood and listened intently to the silence. Then I picked up the crowbar from the umbrella rack and took a short grip on it before letting Renfield in from the back porch. When he came in, he wagged at me ferociously and jumped up to stick his blunt head into my crotch.

“Dumb dog.”

He sat down at my hand gesture and I gave him a commercial dog treat made out of rice and dried meat by-products, which he chomped up with much pleasure. He followed me as I turned on the coffee maker and then went to the front of the house. There, pinned to the wall under the mailbox with a cheap, no-spring switchblade, was the expected note. I pulled both down and went inside to read.

“LEAVE, KILLER!”

Again it was red crayon on brown paper and I folded it up and put it with the others in the kitchen. Then I looked at the knife. It was brand new and the edge of the switchblade had recently been sharpened, but cheap steel is cheap steel, so I broke it in two and dumped it into the garbage.

In the kitchen I flipped on the radio and caught two good songs, Dean Martin’s up-tempo “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” and The Who’s “Boris the Spider.” Then a puerile announcer came on and announced that the Winnipeg Police were looking for some fugitive from Vancouver who was believed to be “in the city and armed and dangerous.” The station had a description of him, right down to the car he was driving, and I listened through the rest of the news and into the next set of songs, then poured myself some coffee and waited for Fred to wake up.

Claire woke up some time past 1:00 when Fred and I were in the front room watching the thunderclouds and listening to the rain fall. Every now and then the thunder would crash and Renfield would come galloping in and try to tuck his head under my arm. The baby and I loved the noise and we clapped with each bright flash of light and each peal of thunder. We were busy clapping rhythmically when Claire came down in her dressing gown and grimly tottered over to where we sat on the rug.

“Good morning.”

Fred made a happy noise and received a kiss. I made a similar noise and was gifted with one too. The dog kept whimpering and tried to force his head right through the floor under the coffee table.

“Good afternoon. Here, sit. I’ll get you coffee.”

She sat down and Fred climbed into her lap and started to point outside as the rain redoubled in force. In the kitchen I turned on the coffee maker and put some bread in to burn. By the time the toast was buttered, a half-pot had finished brewing and I balanced a cup
and the toast and went back out to the two of them. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

“Oh, thank you.”

She sounded very pathetic and took tiny bites out of the toast. I sat down behind her and started to rub her shoulders through her dressing gown. One sleeve slipped down and I could see the top of her right shoulder.

“Oh-ho.”

She took a very small sip of coffee and turned a bloodshot eye towards me. “What?”

“You’ve been busy, you harlot, you. There’s a huge hickey, a veritable love bite, on your neck.”

She craned her neck at it and grunted. “I wish. Actually, we went dancing. There was this big kid, a wannabe cowboy, who put the moves on me and gave me a massage every time I slowed down. He had thick wrists.”

I was rubbing her shoulders and stayed away from the bruise as she continued. “It was a lousy massage.”

“A likely story. Changing the subject, he asks, did you have a good time?”