The Arx (22 page)

Frank said nothing. He knew what was coming.

“I made one stipulation – remember? You promised that if I thought it was getting to be too much for you – that you needed to take a break – you’d listen to me and do it. Remember?”

“This is different…”

“Remember?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m three years old, of course I remember.”

“I’m telling you now, Frank. It’s over. Gloria’s dead. Ralphie’s dead. My poor little sister killed her baby and then took her own life.” Her voice broke again. “There’s nothing you or I can do about it. Step away.”

“I can’t do that.”

He considered revealing the information he’d uncovered about the case. It would be enough to convince her. As quickly as the idea arose, he discarded it. He couldn’t risk the life of the woman he now realized he loved, even if it meant losing her.

“I’m not going to help you anymore Frank,” she said. “I’ve just been enabling you. You’re cruising for another breakdown – after we’d gotten so close. All the work we’ve done…”

“Fine,” he said, tugging another cigarette out of the pack. “I’m better off on my own anyway.”

“What about our agreement?”

“Fuck the agreement.”

“Please, Frank,” she pleaded. Her voice was trembling. “You know I only want to help you. I couldn’t stand it if anything…”

He’d already compromised her safety merely by their association. He realized that his only option was to break off all contact until it was over.

“Forget about it. I’ll see you later,” he said, lighting the cigarette.

“Frank…”

He hung up the phone.

Then he went home and trashed his house.

Back at the Squad

When he opened his eyes the next morning, Frank was lying on the kitchen floor. He had to pry his right cheek off the linoleum; his face was glued to it by something sticky. He examined the substance and realized it was blood – his own. His right cheek was covered with it. He cringed as he recalled fragments of what had happened last night.

Smashed dishes and cutlery littered the floor. Shards of glass lined the space under a pair of French doors that had contained glass panels yesterday but no longer. He vaguely remembered crashing through them, and inspected the rest of his body for cuts. Miraculously, there were only a few minor ones.

He staggered upstairs and into the shower. Having washed the blood, glass shards, and general filth away, he examined the wound on his face. It had bled a lot, but wasn’t too serious. It probably needed stitches, but he rifled through a drawer in the bathroom and found a Band-Aid that more or less covered it. He hadn’t even been drunk; this was something deeper, like the irresistible force of reality colliding with the immovable object of his convictions.

A confused jumble of questions and contradictions fought for dominance in his brain. Gradually he remembered his conversation with Rebecca, and once again his gut clenched. Somehow the baby he’d been convinced was a substitute had proved to be Ralphie after all.

He was also trying to deal with the stunning realization of how he felt about her. She now believed he was obsessed with a case that had never really existed. By extension, he must be mentally unbalanced. She had accepted the idea that her sister was guilty, and would no longer help him.

He gulped down a handful of ibuprofen, stumbled over to his bed, set the alarm out of habit, flopped down and passed out.

Several hours later he woke up. He checked the alarm. It had gone off but he’d slept through it. He lay with his eyes still closed.

He clenched his fists and steeled himself. He didn’t care what evidence Rebecca had, or thought she had; he didn’t even care if she was right about Ralphie. Something was going on; something big, something dangerous.

But somewhere in his subconscious, a tiny voice whispered. No matter how hard he fought to stifle it, the voice kept repeating: what if she and the others were right about him?

It had taken the entire morning, but Frank finally stamped down the anxieties that had been ripping through his brain like a cyclone and convinced himself that he was confident, even relaxed, as he once again approached the building that housed the Vancouver Homicide Squad.

He climbed the stairs with a deliberate spring in his step. As ridiculous as it felt, he was following Rebecca’s suggestion to visualize himself handling any impending confrontations forcefully and confidently.

The exercise seemed to be working until he pushed open the glass doors and a wave of terror washed over him. He reached out to steady himself, like a bad swimmer grasping for the the comfort of the pool’s edge, but grasped nothing but air. As Rebecca had suggested he stopped, closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

He pushed forward, deeper into the squad-room. Once again the activity ceased as his former colleagues became aware of his presence, and again he ran the uncomfortable gauntlet greeting them. As before, the pressure built, both inside and out, now amplified a hundred times. He visualized and fought for control; it seemed to come less easily this time.

He spotted Stocker behind the glass wall of his office and headed directly for it. The office was crowded with Frank’s former colleagues. Stocker was telling a funny story –
about me?
– Frank thought, and scolded himself for being so paranoid. The office door was open and he just walked in.

In contrast to the self-conscious rumblings that had accompanied his previous visit and the unveiling of his theories about the Hanon case, there was an eerie silence this time as Frank told Stocker and the others about Lawrence Retigo, Arthur Dogan, Catherine Lesko, Kaffir Pharma, and Olmerol.

Everyone in the room, even men Frank had worked with for years, shuffled their feet and stared at the floor, looked at their watches, or groomed their fingernails. After he finished talking, the silence seemed to go on forever.

“Let me get this straight,” Stocker finally said, hooking his thumbs into his belt, which looked like it was about to burst open. “This pervert nut-bar Retigo peddles a story about how he stalked his poor, innocent neighbour to the home of one of our most distinguished citizens, a person he has no business getting within a hundred barge-poles of, trespassed on the man’s private property, and spied on him.

“Then he concocts some outrageous fairy-tale about Satan worship, wild orgies, and bodies buried in shallow graves on the front lawn.” Stocker shook his head slowly. “And you believe him.”

“I followed the girl myself,” Frank said. “I know at least part of what Retigo said is true.”

“What? You’ve been following this poor girl too? I think you better shut up now Frank. Pretty soon, I’m going to have to arrest you for something.”

“I’ve got a copy of Retigo’s journal,” Frank said, waving a copy of the reporter’s flash drive. “And I found a hit list with his name on it. I don’t believe his death was an accident.”

Stocker sneered at him. “From what you’ve told me, all it proves is that Lawrence Retigo was a delusional sexual deviant who slid too far into the deep end and couldn’t handle it anymore.”

Frank cast around the room for any kind of support. Almost every one of the men around him avoided eye contact. One of the few exceptions, to Frank’s surprise, was Stocker’s assistant, Terry Hastings. He looked nervous, even frightened.

He believes me
, Frank thought.

“There’s a lot of respect for Frank at the academy…” Hastings said. “Maybe we should…”

Stocker stared him down. Hastings’ eyes moved to the floor.

“So this is the ‘evidence’” Stocker laughed, curling the fingers of each hand like quotations in front of him, “that convinced the Coroner to squander the taxpayers’ money on a DNA test.” He shook his head. “There really is one born every minute.”

“You need help, Frank,” Stocker said. “I thought before that you might be getting better, but you’re really out there. Look at yourself.” He pointed at Frank’s face, still unshaven, bruised, scratched, and patched with the Band-Aid.

“Get lost, Frank,” he said. “Go see somebody – somebody professional. Whatever you’ve done so far isn’t working. I’m telling you this man to man.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Frank said. He stared at Terry Hastings.

“Get out of here, Frank,” Stocker said, “before I have you thrown out.”

Frank took a step toward Stocker. A couple of the detectives rushed over. They gripped Frank’s arms from behind.

“I know it sounds crazy but it’s the truth!” Frank yelled. They started to haul him away. “Tom – Jim – Terry – I’m telling you. People are going to die!”

The men started to drag him out of the office. Frank tossed the flash drive on the desk beside him. Terry Hastings moved toward it.

“Leave that where it is!” Stocker bellowed.

He turned to Frank, his face red and jowls shaking. “Don’t come back here. Leave us alone. We’ve got police work to do.”

It took three detectives, all of whom had once worked closely with him, to haul Frank through the main doors and pitch him half-way down the front stairs.

The pressure that had been building inside him exploded. He stumbled down the steps and people on the sidewalk stared as he fell and lay on the pavement.

An overwhelming urge boiled up inside him, an urge he hadn’t felt for weeks – the urge for a drink.

Rebecca Looks for a Shoulder

“I felt like I had to talk to someone.” Rebecca choked back tears as she sat on the patio of Carla De Leon’s penthouse apartment in Kerrisdale. She stared blankly at the view of Kitsilano to the north, and, farther in the distance, English Bay and the North Shore Mountains.

Carla brought her a glass of red wine and sat opposite her.

“Drink up,” she said. “It will help you relax. I’m so glad you came to me. I’m happy that you consider me someone you can open up to.”

Rebecca wrapped her hands around her wine glass.

“Man trouble?” Carla asked, smiling.

Rebecca nodded. She took a sip of wine and composed herself.

“The one I told you about,” she finally said. “We had a big fight. I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.”

“What was the fight about?”

“It was about my…” Rebecca caught herself. A part of her felt like she was still infected with Frank’s paranoia. Still, she resolved not to say too much.

“My friend has some psychological issues,” she said. “He had a breakdown a year ago and he never really recovered. He refuses to go for treatment. I’ve been trying to help him, you know, just informally.”

She looked up at Carla. The older woman nodded and rested a hand on hers. Rebecca continued. “He’s gotten involved in something that I can see is going to end in another breakdown.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I’ve tried to talk him out of it but he won’t listen…”

“My dear,” Carla said, patting her hand. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“I feel so helpless,” Rebecca sobbed. “It’s like watching a car accident happen in front of you and not being able to stop it.”

“But what is it your friend got involved in?” Carla asked.

Rebecca tensed. Though she hadn’t known Carla for long, in that short time she felt they’d formed a special bond. Carla had always been so brutally honest, sharing her innermost secrets and fears.

Still, for all their closeness, Rebecca didn’t feel ready to open up about Gloria and ‘the case’. She was caught between her betrayal of Frank by seeing Carla, and her betrayal of Carla by continuing her original ruse and not telling her friend the truth.

“I’d rather not say,” she said.

“You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest,” Carla said, squeezing her hand.

For a fleeting moment Rebecca considered telling her everything. In the end, she decided against it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wouldn’t be comfortable saying any more about it.”

A flash of what could have been anger swept across Carla’s face. She let go of Rebecca’s hand. As quickly as it had appeared, the expression was gone.

“It’s hard for me to advise you when I don’t know the circumstances,” Carla said, smiling. “I suppose all you can do is be supportive of your friend and continue to try to steer him away from the path you say he’s on. On the other hand, if you don’t contact him for a while maybe he’ll lose interest.”

Carla stood and motioned for Rebecca to stand as well. The older woman extended her arms and they hugged warmly.

“I’m so lucky to have a friend like you,” Rebecca said, her voice breaking.

“I wish you would put more trust in me, dear,” Carla said, patting her shoulder. “Someday I hope you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me everything. You know I’ll always be here for you.”

Stocker Has a Friend

There was a spring in Lead Detective Grant Stocker’s step as he strolled down the polished hallway of the Police Board building. Today was a pivotal day; the forces of the universe were finally converging in his favour.