None So Blind (12 page)

Green tried to look understanding. He’d handled dozens of struggling survivors over the years and watched families come to grips with a murderer in their midst. It never got any easier for him. But unlike many survivors, who grew up in what amounted to a family war zone, Paige was an innocent, protected by a mother who had known how to escape.

“How did he seem when you met him?” he asked, to steer her away from her memories.

For the first time she noticed her son, who was racing down the hall and smashing into the end wall with shrieks of glee. She seemed to hesitate before choosing to ignore the destruction.

“The thing that struck me the most was how ordinary he was. Not at all the monster I’d imagined. In that wheelchair, with his grey hair and sad, tired eyes, it was hard to picture him killing anyone. I know that’s the trouble. Killers and monsters do seem like ordinary people.

“He drank his coffee black and worried about whether my coffee was hot enough. He seemed ready to take the staff to task on my behalf.” She smiled faintly. “The coffee was awful, and when I told him it was fine, he smiled. It was such an ordinary smile. Reminded me of my sister, Pam. He said, ‘No, it’s appalling, but it’s nice of you not to say so.’

“I guess I was surprised by how well-spoken he was. I was expecting some semi-literate thug because that’s how we think of murderers, and I forgot he was a professor with a Ph.D. from Princeton. Not that that makes him any less a murderer, of course, but his intelligence didn’t seem manipulative.” She flushed and bit her lip. “I don’t have any experience with murderers, but he … Well, he just wasn’t at all what I expected.”

“How did you leave things with him?”

She rose abruptly to intercept her son just as he was heading for the wall at full speed again. The wall already had several dents and, as Green glanced around, he saw other signs of toddler destruction. Gouges on the legs of the dining room table, scratches on the white baseboard, and broken stalks on the houseplant in the corner.

Paige snatched him off the moving toy with a sharp reprimand, which evoked a screech of rage. The boy thrashed and kicked in her arms but she pinned him tightly to her chest. Averting her head to evade his fists, she met Green’s eyes. He thought there were tears in hers.

“I just left. Said I had to think about things and consider the effect on my son. And on my husband.”

“And how did your father take that?”

As she struggled to soothe her child, she looked very young. Barely older than Hannah, and much too young to be handling such a fiercely wilful son. Yet she held on. “He was very quiet. He said he was happy to meet me. That’s all.” She eyed him keenly. “These questions … are you suggesting he may have killed himself?”

“I don’t know, Paige. I honestly don’t know. He had a lot to contend with, a lot of adjustments to make after twenty years of lost life.”

“That’s what my husband said. That I shouldn’t get too close. Too involved. Give us all space. He … he did phone, once, and left a message. I didn’t return it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d hate to think …”

As soon as he was back in his car, Green phoned Archie Goodfellow again. The chaplain sounded harassed and worried, a shadow of his usual jocular self.

“Boy, have I dropped myself in the middle of it this time, Mike! Corrections is all over me. First for letting him go to Kingston by himself in the first place, although technically his PO authorized it, but more importantly for not reporting him absent when he didn’t show up on his train.”

“Bureaucratic ass-covering, Archie. It’s moot. He was already on the train to Ottawa.”

“I know, but if I’d reported it, they’d have caught up with him before he got off the train in Ottawa, and got him back into custody safe and sound.”

Green gazed out the window in search of a reassuring answer. The truth was there wasn’t one. Archie had screwed up, and it would likely cost him. Not the least with his own conscience.

The venetian blind in Paige’s living room twitched. She was watching him, probably wondering what he was putting in his report and what judgment he was passing on her actions. Not so harsh as her own judgment, he suspected.

“Archie, I’ve been to see the daughter,” he said. “She says he tried to contact her once more after their visit. Did you know about that?”

Archie paused. “Nothing came of it. She never returned the call.”

“But it may have influenced his state of mind.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but he wasn’t discouraged. She hadn’t cut him off. You know James, Mike. This is a guy who doesn’t give up, who hangs on to the tiniest thread of hope. All those years in prison, that’s what got him through. He’s not going to give up now, not with his daughter and grandson almost within reach. Not to mention …”

“Not to mention what?”

Silence stretched across time. An old grey SUV revved around the corner and shot up the street. It braked beside Green and the man at the wheel stared at him for a moment before pulling into Paige’s drive.

“Well, I’m in enough trouble,” Archie said finally. “I don’t know if it means anything, but you better know. James had another visitor.”

“Who?” As Green watched, the man got out of the SUV and glared at him before heading in the front door.
So she called her husband
, he thought.
I guess that’s natural enough
.

“He wasn’t supposed to have any contact with her,” Archie was saying, “but she’s the one who came to me. I set the meeting up off the grounds in a public place — Tim Hortons. I didn’t stay, because she didn’t want me to, but I kept watch through the window from the parking lot. He was really surprised by the visit. More puzzled than suspicious, I’d say. Excited even, like maybe she had something significant to say.”

“Archie. Who?”

“The last person either of us would expect. Marilyn Carmichael.”

Green was flabbergasted. “What did she want?”

“James never told me. Never said a word about the meeting except that she had a lot of courage. She didn’t stay long, but when he came back outside, he was different. Visibly shaken.”

“Ashamed? Guilty?”

“No. I can’t put my finger on it. More like his world was suddenly upside down.”

G
reen
was already halfway across the city on his way to Navan before he remembered Marie Claire Levesque. She had not been pleased that he’d barged into her case to take over notification of next of kin, but since her only other option was to send her rookie sidekick along with a local uniform, she had capitulated with as much grace as she could muster.

She would not be so forgiving of his taking over a key witness. Nor would he have been, in her shoes. Which he had been once — a new detective filled with righteous conviction, out to make his mark. Ignoring the reprimands of both the OPP and his own sergeant in his determination to follow his gut.

His rationale now, which he formulated as he rang her cellphone, was that, first of all, this was not yet an active murder inquiry and, second, Marilyn Carmichael was likely to be far more forthcoming with him than with a stranger.

Not to mention he knew exactly what questions to ask.

When Levesque answered with her trademark bilingual “
Oui, âllo
, Sergeant Levesque,” Green filled her in first on his interview with Rosten’s daughter. She listened without comment until he mentioned Rosten’s later call to her.

“And this was what date?”

“Two days ago. He left a message which she didn’t return.”

“A disappointment for him, for sure,” she said. “And he told her how much he loved the cottage?”

“Yes. She doesn’t even remember it.”

“Another disappointment.” He could almost see her ticking off the suicide checklist. “We will need a formal statement from her and instructions on the release of the body.”

“Those sound like tasks for your new detective,” Green said. As casually as he could, he tossed out the next line. “Any new developments in the investigation at your end?”

“Small details. Ident has lifted usable prints from both the Scotch bottle and the pill bottle. Rosten’s prints are on file, of course, so it will be an easy match once Cunningham gets back to the station. They did a search of the house, but there were no signs that any of the other rooms were disturbed. Rosten’s bag was on one of the beds and it contained nothing unusual.” She rhymed off toiletries, a sweater, and a paperback thriller.

“No pyjamas?”

“No. We have found two neighbours further up the road who saw the taxi drive in and out again. About dinnertime, one said. The other thought it was later. They heard and saw no activity at the cottage, because it is too hidden by trees.”

“What about the taxi driver? Has he been interviewed?”

“He is in class. We have arranged to meet him in an hour.”

“Don’t forget to ask him —”

“I know what to ask him. Sir. Rosten’s mood and demeanour, did they make any stops, how did he obtain the takeout curry, the Scotch, and the drugs?” She let the silence hang a moment. “Did I pass, boss?”

Green laughed. “Perfect score, Sergeant. I am on my way out to Navan to break the news to Marilyn Carmichael. That’s his victim’s mother. Apparently she visited him a week ago —”

“She
what
?”

He had hoped to slip this tidbit in quietly, but Levesque was too quick. He sketched in the few details he had on Marilyn’s meeting with Rosten.

“And the priest permitted this?” Still incredulous.

“Chaplain. Yes. He felt there might be some healing in it for both of them. He is very big on the healing power of bridges.”

“Tabernac,”
she muttered. “How far is Navan from Morris Island?”

“They are at opposite ends of the city. At least ninety kilometres apart.”

“
Sacre bleu
, an hour.”

He could almost hear her calculating pros and cons, so he gave her a gentle nudge. “You’ve got the taxi driver to interview, Marie Claire. I’m already halfway there. And Marilyn Carmichael knows me. This is going to be difficult news for her. I will fill you in on any relevant information.”

She signed off with a brusque thank you that made Green smile. Levesque had been on the Major Crimes Squad for over a year and a half now, and she was proving herself a competent detective, albeit precise and procedure-bound. Green was still hoping trust and humour would follow with time, although he suspected he’d be the last to know.

Marilyn Carmichael’s laneway was empty when Green pulled in, and her aging green CR-V was nowhere to be seen. Green cursed. He stood in the lane, studying the little house, which looked transformed from the dreary winter months. The front door and shutters had been painted a cheerful green and the window boxes were bursting with flowers. Marigolds and petunias, he observed with a wry smile. The grass was lush, the perennial gardens massed with colour, and the lilac bushes were in full flower. Their fragrance wafted on the country breeze.

He felt a wave of relief. The proud, industrious Marilyn appeared to be back with a vengeance. Perhaps the era of gin was over. He was just bending over to examine a clump of unfamiliar, bright-pink flowers when, to his surprise, the front door opened.

“Inspector! What are you doing here?”

He looked up to see Marilyn standing in the open doorway, pale, tired, and even thinner than ever. He appraised her as he approached, but her eyes were clear and her clothing neat.

“Marilyn, the garden looks beautiful.”

“This is its best time of year,” she replied. Rather than inviting him in, she stepped out onto the porch.

“I didn’t think you were here,” he said. “Your car is gone.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Gordon has it. Gone to town for some more paint.”

“Gordon’s still here? That must be nice for you.” Green kept his voice neutral. “Is it him who’s been doing the work?”

“The heavy work, yes.”

“Is he staying much longer?”

Her lips pursed. “He’s not sure of his plans. Paris is … not what it used to be, he says. Are you just in the neighbourhood, or is there a reason for your visit?”

“There’s a reason. Can we go inside?”

Alarm flared in her eyes and she tightened her arms across her chest. “Inside is a bit of a tip, I’m afraid. What’s this about?”

“James Rosten.”

“Of course. Has he turned up?”

“Yes.” He gestured past her toward the door. “Please?”

She searched his face before turning reluctantly to lead the way inside. The interior was in stark contrast to the outside. Dark and dingy, it was still piled high with boxes and garbage bags of clutter. Dishes, beer bottles, and discarded clothes littered the living room. She rushed ahead and busied herself collecting the bottles.

“Kids. They never do grow up, do they? I’m relieved he’s turned up. I won’t be visiting him again, if that’s what you’ve come about. I wanted to see … how he was. It felt like something I had to do — to face him square on.”

He chose a corner of the sofa, moving a buttery leather jacket aside to make room. “Why?”

“Why?” She turned to head into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder. “I wanted to see what kind of man he’d become. During the trial, I never really saw
him
, only this monster who had killed Jackie. But now he’s a middle-aged man, isn’t he? No longer the handsome charmer, just an invalid in a wheelchair. I didn’t stay long. Tea, Inspector?”

He rose to help her in the kitchen. “Is that why you supported his parole?”

A cup slipped and nearly fell from her grasp. He rescued it and set it down. “I need to move on,” she said. “That means letting go. Seeing Rosten for the broken man he is, telling him it was time for him too to move on.”

“How did he react to your visit?”

She said nothing while she poured milk into her cup and placed a sliver of lemon beside his. “He thanked me for supporting his parole. He said he was managing and asked me how I was. How the children were.”

“What did you say?”

She turned to him then, her back against the counter and her brow knit in alarm. “What’s this about? What’s happened?”

“Marilyn, James Rosten is dead. He died last night.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth. Stared at him, blinking as if in disbelief. “How?”

“We don’t know. He was at his cottage on the river.”

She absorbed this in silence, no doubt battling a barrage of memories about that infamous place. Green knew she had driven out to the woods after Jackie’s body was found and had sat on the damp, leafy ground, sifting the loam through her fingers as if seeking the closeness of her daughter’s last moments.

Now she was visualizing another death. Fear, anguish, and ultimately horror flitted across her face. Eventually she pulled herself together with an effort and shook her head. “He didn’t seem ill. Was it an accident?”

“We’re still investigating. So far there’s no evidence of that.”

“Then he …” Her eyes widened. “Oh my lamb, did he kill himself?”

“Did he seem depressed to you?”

“Oh! No. It’s just he seemed healthy enough, so …”

“All I can tell you, Marilyn, is that until the post-mortem, we don’t know. We have to keep all possibilities open.”

“How did he get there? What was he doing there?”

“He took a taxi. We don’t know what he was doing there.”

“So he didn’t go with someone? Or meet someone there?”

Green hid his surprise. “What makes you think that? Who would he meet?”

“I — I don’t know. I just thought … maybe his daughter?”

“Did he mention that possibility to you when you saw him?”

“No. Well —” The water began bubbling vigorously and she turned her back on him to attend to the tea. “He didn’t mention the cottage, but he said he’d met his daughter.”

“How was his mood?”

She arranged the tea on a tray but when she tried to pick it up, her hands trembled too badly. He rescued it from her. To his surprise, there were tears in her eyes.

“He
did
kill himself, didn’t he? That’s what you’re saying. Alone, back at the scene of it all, unable to face his life ahead.”

“Marilyn, we won’t know —”

“I know, I know. Until the autopsy. But surely there are some signs! A gunshot to the head, an empty bottle of pills? A needle by his arm? How?”

“There were some pills, but …” He stopped himself.

“Then that’s it.” She headed down the hall toward the living room, her hand on the wall as if to steady herself. “You asked about his mood? He was sad. He didn’t say so, but I think he was sad that life had passed him by, that his family and friends had moved on and he had to start from scratch.” She sank heavily into a chair. “Poor man.”

She made no effort to pour the tea, but merely sat in her chair with her hands clutched in her lap as if she were fighting back a wave of horror. The depth of her emotion puzzled Green.

“An unusual sentiment, coming from you,” he remarked.

“Well, I’d only just seen him. Just spoken to him. It gives me the chills.”

A car sounded in the drive, and before he could inquire further, the front door flew open. Gordon’s thin, high voice filled the house.

“She wasn’t on the flight! Sent me a fucking text when I’m nearly at the airport to say —” He stopped abruptly in the archway to the living room. A scowl crossed his face. “So that’s a fucking unmarked cop car outside.”

Green rose to offer his hand. Gordon had put on some weight, perhaps now that he was back under his mother’s wing, and he had abandoned all pretence of the Bohemian
artiste
. He was dressed in flip-flops, torn jeans and an ancient stained T-shirt from the rock band AC/DC. The album title
Back in Black
seemed to match his mood, and three days’ worth of patchy stubble did not improve the look.

He gave Green’s hand an incredulous stare before addressing his mother. “What does he want?”

Marilyn responded in a rush. “James Rosten is dead. He committed suicide last night at his cottage.”

Gordon froze, fighting shock and disbelief before rearranging his face in his customary indifference. “Good riddance, I say.”

“Gordon!”

“No, Mum. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Now I’m going to get myself something a bit stronger and colder than that tea, if you don’t mind.”

He headed to the kitchen, where Green heard the fridge open.

Marilyn followed, her voice carrying down the hall. “What about Julia? She missed her flight, you say?”

“No, she switched it and flew to Syracuse instead — said it was cheaper — and then rented a fucking car.”

Marilyn murmured a response Green couldn’t hear.

“Said she wanted to visit an old friend on the way and anyway we’d need more than one car while we’re all here. I told her don’t expect me to pay half.”

“So when is she coming?”

Green heard the sound of a beer top being popped and clattering onto the floor. “You know Julia. Only ever does what’s good for Julia. She’ll be along in her own sweet time, depending on whether this old friend is a guy or not.” Cupboard doors creaked and plates thudded on the counter. “I’m going out back.”

Marilyn gave a barely audible whisper.

Gordon raised his voice further in answer. “He’s your friend, not mine. Don’t expect me to talk to him.”

The back screen door screeched and Marilyn returned to the living room, her face pink and her eyes evasive.

“So you have both your children visiting,” Green said. “That’s unusual.”

“I don’t know why you say that. I am their mother.”

“I didn’t mean they shouldn’t. But both at the same time?”

“Nothing unusual in that either,” she said, reaching for her tea. “It’s my sixty-fifth birthday next week, and I’m going to have a celebration. I decided it was high time.”

“Happy birthday,” he said with a smile. “Lucas would want that.”

She sucked in her breath. Put her teacup down with a clatter. “Yes. Yes, he would.”

On Monday, after ten days in hospital, Sid Green was finally moved from the Neurology ICU to a regular room on the neurology ward. Nursing and rehab staff buzzed in and out throughout the morning but Sid spent most of the time in bed staring at the ceiling. In the four days since Rosten’s death, the team social worker had been trying to set up an appointment with Green but he’d been dodging her calls. He told himself he had no time to spare at the moment, but he knew better. They wanted to ship his father to a nursing home.