Fall from Grace (27 page)

I wondered what would happen to Peter if I got caught this time. How long would he sit until he realized that something was wrong? How would he live knowing that his father had taken him along on a bank robbery? And what would Children Services think about that? Would they deem Joan unfit because she had allowed me to take Peter to a hockey game?

“May I help you?” I heard someone ask.

I turned to the sound and saw that one of the clerks had noticed me standing in the doorway. I waited for a second and then shook my head. “Oh, sorry, I think I forgot my wallet.” And then I left the building, dashed through the parking lot, and back into the car.

Peter sat there as if nothing was wrong. He smiled when he saw me. “You okay, Dad?” he asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice and his face. I wanted to hug my boy forever, but instead I nodded and smiled back.

“Yeah, I got what I needed.”

We said little on the drive back to the coffee shop, a few comments about the game and how we should do this again, although I warned him that it wouldn’t always be hockey games, that it was only a special occasion to impress the shit out of him. He laughed at that, especially at the fact that I said
shit.

When Joan spotted us arriving at the coffee shop, I could see her face and body relax. “Sorry for being late. The game went a bit longer than expected, right, Peter?”

He nodded and went into a excited monologue about where we sat, what we ate, who scored, how the ref made a bad call in the second period and all that. I looked at Joan and nodded at her. Her look was neutral. Despite the joy in her son’s voice, she still didn’t trust me. I didn’t fault her for it. Heck, I barely trusted myself.

32

Even though I knew the police and prostitute story was dead, I couldn’t let it go. The fact that there was now a police document stating some members of the EPS had abused and blackmailed city prostitutes in the past made me wonder if one of them had taken things too far.

It was a big leap to imagine a city cop might be involved in one of these murders; Edmonton cops had had their problems over the past decade but killing a prostitute, or one of them being a serial murderer, was unthinkable. Even crazy.

But that was the way my mind worked sometimes. A small thought would be planted for whatever reason, a connection would be made that seemed logical, and even though it wasn’t really something to worry about or it didn’t really have a basis in reality, it would keep poking and jabbing at me until I had no choice but to pay attention and act.

This time it was probably due to some residual feelings from my recent outing with Peter and my close call at the payday loan place. And it reminded me of the way I’d obsessed over the search for Charlie. Since I hadn’t been able to stop myself that time, why would this time be any different? So I read Gardiner’s file over and over again, looking for anything that would keep this story, and possibly Grace’s story, alive.

On page 5 of Gardiner’s file I found something that kept me going. It was alleged that a Constable Simon Meredith had set up a party for some of his fellow EPS members and used threats of physical violence to get a good number of young prostitutes to attend. It was further alleged, based on a thirdhand account, mind you, that the same Constable Meredith had beaten one of those prostitutes, breaking her nose and choking her to the point of unconsciousness before he tossed her aside.

I ran Meredith’s name through the Infomart, expecting to get nothing. I told myself if I did, I would call it quits until something really substantial came up. What I found only convinced me to continue. Meredith’s name did come up a few times and most entries had to do with appearances before police disciplinary committees for his behavior while on duty. He had even been charged with assault a couple of times, once for an off-duty bar fight in which another patron’s arm had been broken, and another time when he used his Taser three times on a guy sleeping in a rooming house.

Both times, the charges were dropped. The first, because witnesses, most of them also off-duty police officers, testified that the other guy had started the fight. As for the guy Tasered in his sleep, the court believed Meredith’s testimony in which he stated that he thought his life was in danger because the sleeping man was reportedly a robbery suspect, and if he woke him in a regular fashion, the suspect would strike out with a weapon. So he decided to use the Taser, even though there were no weapons found at the scene and the guy had no prior record and nothing to do with a robbery.

But the only witnesses to the event were Meredith, the guy who got Tasered, and another homeless guy who was sleeping in a neighboring bed. And since the two homeless guys didn’t show up for the trial, Meredith’s testimony was the only thing to count and the charge was dismissed by the judge.

It was obvious that Meredith had problems with violence. I found his name and address in the phone book and went to see if he would talk to me. Maybe, I thought, he would confess to killing prostitutes and I would be the hero of the day again.

He was splitting wood in his backyard, the sound of each chop echoing through the neighborhood like a sharp gunshot. Even though it was barely minus 15 degrees Celsius, and I was wearing my winter jacket, gloves, toque and long underwear, he was sporting only a pair of torn jeans and a T-shirt with the EPS crest just below the right shoulder. Because of the cold, his body was steaming and with every swing it exploded into a cloud of angry mist. He split every piece of wood with one swing but at no time did he grunt.

I watched him for several seconds, wondering how to approach him, how to broach the subject of the death of several prostitutes without being too accusatory. Especially for a recently retired cop, he looked as fit as a recent graduate from the academy. He was also holding a very large ax. I wasn’t even sure if there was a story here, a sure sign that I might have been chasing another ghost.

To get his attention, I cleared my throat, and if I surprised him, he didn’t show it. Without letting go of the handle, he set the ax head down on the ground and turned. His face was inquisitive but there was no animosity or anger, as I had been expecting. He was just curious about who this dude was in his backyard.

“Are you Simon Meredith?” I asked.

He blinked and swung the ax over his shoulder. “Who’s asking?”

I introduced myself.

“I don’t read newspapers,” he said with a grunt. “Most of it’s just crap. Even in the sports section no one knows what they’re talking about.”

“That’s fine,” I said, pulling out my notebook and pen. That gesture got a reaction. His face narrowed into a scowl and he shifted the ax to the other shoulder.

“I recently wrote a story about an old investigation into a group of police constables who were alleged to have blackmailed prostitutes for a number of reasons, and unfortunately, your name came up a number of times in that case and I was wondering if—”

He slammed the ax into the stump so hard that the handle shook and quivered. He took one step toward me, his hands squeezed into fists so tight that his knuckles were white. A puff of steam rose off his body.

I did my best not to step back because guys like him, guys who are prone to violent reactions, are very similar to dogs. If you run, then chances are they will chase you down and tear you to pieces. However, it also wasn’t smart to stare down an angry dog, but you had a better chance of getting hurt if you ran. I was also somewhat happy that he put down the ax.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” he said through his teeth. “So get the fuck off my property.”

“You sure?” I said, trying to sound the way I thought another cop investigating him would sound. “It would probably be better if you told your side of the story. Without it, you might come out looking pretty bad, whether you did anything wrong or not.”

He took a deep breath and I could tell that this was part of some anger-management training he probably was ordered to take. “Listen,” he said, each word sounding like the life was being squeezed out of it. “I told you I have nothing to say to you. I also told you to get off my property, and if you don’t do that within the next ten seconds, you’re going to be in big trouble.”

This was a sign that I should have just walked away from this guy, because he wasn’t going to comment on anything, and since he wouldn’t, there was no story here. But I couldn’t help myself. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Meredith?” I wrote some gibberish in my notebook, probably one of the worst bluffs in my life.

“I don’t make threats,” he said. “And if you’re still on my property for five more seconds, you’re an official trespasser.”

By the look on his face and the information I had about his background, I realized that was probably true. Meredith was one of those guys who didn’t worry about little niceties like threats. He acted, usually with violence. And the fact that he was a recently retired cop and I was here on his property without invitation made me understand that it was time to leave.

I flipped my notebook closed and turned away. And though I did my best to play it cool and walked away as slowly as possible, without turning around, my heart danced in my chest and my brain told me to run as fast as I could because I was about to get an ax in the back of the head.

*   *   *

After that I decided the story was dead, at least for the moment. It would surface only when another body was found in a field or if something completely unrelated to my efforts broke.

There was nothing more for me to do but to put myself back into the assignment mix, and write the stories that were the backbone of the print-journalist job, pieces that were relatively easy to research, easy to write, and didn’t create a tempest when they were published: stories about car accidents or minor criminal incidents, most of which got cut from the newspaper because of time and space requirements. The high of a major scoop was a wonderful experience but my run-in with Meredith convinced me that even addicts need a little downtime.

This went on for a couple days or so and I usually left the paper at a decent hour. Even so, by the time I stepped out of the front doors, it was usually already dark and the cold had settled in for the night. Even though there was no snow on the ground and it was still officially fall, winter was making its move. The air was biting, and the wind gnawed at the skin. Still, the night sky was clear, many of the stars still visible even with the light of downtown. I walked through the streets, hunched over, cursing the wind and thanking the stars for my decision to wear long underwear.

Nonetheless, I mentally kicked myself for forgetting a toque; having my head covered would have made a difference. I also yearned for and at the same time did not want the falling of the first snow. A first snow would not only bring a bit of warmth to the air, it would also finally relieve me of this misery of waiting. Until it snowed, this cold would drive the city crazy because there was always a lingering hope. But, if the snow came too early then we could be stuck with months upon months of the white stuff, and by the time March came around, we would be sick of it, the yearning for color in our lives so powerful that many would book a trip to a more tropical clime or, if we couldn’t afford that, take to watching golf on TV to get a remembrance of the colors of summer.

This night I didn’t stop across the street from the casino. I had arrived at a point where its presence no longer tempted me so I trudged past it and out of downtown, making my way through the vast open lot between 104th and 105th streets.

They were waiting for me in the middle, a spot in the field where the lack of light created a zone of darkness. The car was unmarked but, with its four doors and black unwhitewalled tires, it was obviously a police car.

The two cops who climbed out of it were in plainclothes and pretty nondescript, about thirty or so, not too big, not too small. But they moved with that typical police swagger that showed they were not only quite comfortable with the power of their authority, they got a big charge out of it. And even though it was night, they both wore large aviator sunglasses that covered not only their eyes but their eyebrows and the tops of their cheeks.

These guys weren’t just police officers, they were Cops with an emphasis on the capital
C
. There’s a big difference between police officers and Cops. Even between cops and Cops. Police officers and small
c
cops are relatively good people; all civilians no matter where they live or how much money they have, are treated equally across the board. They don’t swagger, and if they wear sunglasses, they take them off when inside or at night.

Cops with a capital
C
swagger as much as possible, and get a hard-on from their authority, using it to push people around. The guys that beat Rodney King in L.A. were Cops. Those guys who were on Gardiner’s list of EPS members who liked to coerce prostitutes to provide them with special services and party favors for their friends were big
C
Cops.

As they walked toward me, I said nothing. With Cops it’s best if you keep quiet because they are looking for any excuse to make things difficult. As is typical when any police approach a subject, these two split left and right, one moving toward me while the other hung back.

I stopped, instinctively taking my hands out of my pockets to show I had nothing to hide. Despite their swagger, I wasn’t worried too much about these guys. I figured they were probably looking for some homeless person to roust, and once I made them aware that I was just another working citizen, they would probably let me go, maybe with a warning that I was taking my life into my hands by walking through such a dark, dangerous area at this time of night. That feeling wouldn’t last.