Fifth Son (16 page)

“Ten per cent of schizophrenics do kill themselves,” Assad added helpfully.

Sullivan eased into the topic of Green's interest carefully. “What about delusions? I understand he had been quite preoccupied with good and evil.”

Roddingham had begun paging through one of Lawrence's earlier charts and did not look up when Assad cast him a glance for guidance. Without any, Assad chose to equivocate. “He was always a religious man, with a simple view of right and wrong. However, I would call his interest obsessional, not delusional.”

“But if he stopped taking his medication six weeks ago, could he not become delusional again?”

Assad's eyes lit as he saw a way out from under his burden of responsibility. “Of course, without monitoring and treatment, I can't predict what he might do. That's very possible.”

“Was there a potential for him to become dangerous?”

Roddingham looked up with alarm and clearly decided it was time to resume command. “Off the record? Certainly he has the potential. He's a paranoid schizophrenic, and it depends on what form his delusions and hallucinations take. However, the vast majority of schizophrenics are not dangerous, and the law does not allow us to lock up indefinitely a patient who might someday, potentially, become violent.” He perused a chart slowly. “In his earlier charts, there were numerous incidents of agitation when he had to be restrained to protect himself or others. But there is no record of his actually inflicting physical harm.”

Sullivan nodded casually at the file Roddingham was studying. “What do the records say about his admission? Did his parents report any incidents of violence?”

Roddingham paused to scrutinize something in the chart and looked up with surprise. “On the contrary. Here's your answer. The reason they gave for wanting him committed was that he tried to kill himself.”

Sullivan's headache receded before his sudden surge of interest. “What were the circumstances?”

“He tried to hang himself. Very nearly succeeded, from the look of it. Still had the marks around his neck when he arrived.”

Sullivan shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the plastic booth at McDonalds, letting the shriek of small children wash over him as he waited for Peters to bring their food. He had taken one look at the crowd lined five deep at the counters and quickly accepted her offer to help. If she wanted to score some Brownie points with him, who was he to stop her? Thankfully, she'd been quiet on the drive from the hospital to the McDonalds near the police station, which allowed him to gather his thoughts, but he knew she was brimming with questions she was too proud to ask. He'd soon have to turn on his teaching skills. How many years had he been breaking in rookies? Too many, for sure.

Sue Peters was an army brat who'd grown up in a house full of brothers on army bases around the world. She seemed comfortable in the company of men, but Sullivan suspected a small part of her still felt she had something to prove in a man's world. She was determined to look good, even at the expense of asking how. He'd seen it before in cops of both sexes who thought they always had to be in control, and he wasn't keen to be the one to break her in.

Something thumped on the table, and he opened his eyes to see Peters shrug off her jacket and drop into the booth opposite. She slurped her coke with a flourish.

“What do you think of that shrink, eh, Sarge? The Arab guy? Weasely bastard, I don't think he remembered our guy at all!”

Sullivan winced. Where to begin? With the Arab, the shrink or the Sarge? He chose to start with her prejudices.

“Dr. Assad has a large caseload. I suspect he wanted to make sure he had his facts straight before he committed himself. And Detective,” he leaned his large frame towards her to make sure he had her attention, “exact language is essential in investigative work. Dr. Assad is a psychiatrist, not a shrink, and his ethnic background is of absolutely no relevance to this investigation.”

To her credit, she flushed as she busied herself dousing vinegar on her fries. Finally, she shrugged. “I didn't mean anything by it. All the guys...”

“All the guys don't. I don't. All we have is our reputation for professionalism and objectivity, Detective. In court and with witnesses, without that reputation we're useless.” He took a large bite of his Big Mac, leaving her to mull that over for a few minutes. After he'd polished off more than half his burger, he picked up his coke and leaned back, feeling slightly revived and ready to begin.

“What did you make of the interview back at the hospital?”

She met his gaze levelly, as if she was still smarting from his reprimand. “They didn't tell us much, considering the guy's been living in that place over half his life. Makes you wonder if he was much more than just a number in a bed.” She shook her head. “What a pathetic, wasted life.”

“I think you'll find the group home can tell us more this afternoon. That staff would have lived with him day in and out. But we did learn one useful thing.”

“What? That he tried to kill himself?”

Sullivan nodded. “It isn't quite what the Inspector was looking for, but it does confirm his suspicion that something bad happened in the family back then.”

“Maybe he just went off the deep end for no reason. After all, he is a psycho.”

Sullivan fixed her a silent glare, and she threw her hands up in frustration. “Another word off limits? Sarge, how can we do this job if we don't blow off some steam among our own kind? I wouldn't use psycho on the stand.”

“Disrespect is disrespect. Just as I'm Sergeant, not Sarge.”

Two spots of colour flamed her cheeks, but she said nothing, lapsing instead into a frosty silence that lasted the rest of his Big Mac. He cursed his hangover and his own stupidity in choosing to bring her along. Christ, how the hell had she made the force, let alone detective?

“Peters, you have a choice here this afternoon,” he said. “You can grow up, act like a professional, and set your investigative mind to this case, or you can catch a cab to the Voyageur bus station, and leave me to do my job.” He picked up the tray and stood up. “I'm going to the john. Your choice if you meet me outside in the car. Or not.”

He knew she'd be in the car, of course, but he hoped she'd leave the attitude inside. Sure enough, when he emerged from the building, she was sitting obediently in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. He knew her pride had taken a beating, so he refrained from comment. As he eased the car into gear, she took out her notebook. Her tone was subdued.

“I'd like permission to conduct the interview with the group home supervisor, sir. At least the first part.”

“Why?”

“She's a woman. She might feel more comfortable with me.”

Sullivan wondered if she was implying he was a blunt, lumbering oaf, but decided she'd never in a million years be that subtle. “What questions do you plan to ask?”

They worked on her list of questions as they drove to the group home, which was located in an older, blue-collar neighbourhood not far from the hospital. Peters gradually relaxed as she put her mind to the task, and Sullivan was able to catch a glimpse of a promising investigative mind. He nonetheless reserved his decision on the interview until he had gleaned his initial impression of Mrs. Hogencamp.

He wasn't sure what he expected a group home supervisor to be like—a stout, no-nonsense matron, perhaps—but the reality took him aback. She was a wiry, frenetic bird of a woman whose fiery henna hair clashed with her pink spandex jumpsuit and her red finger nails. She looked as if she belonged in an aerobics studio, but they found her in the kitchen of the old converted home, shepherding her bewildered assistants through the preparation of dinner with a gentle, patient hand.

The minute Peters introduced herself, however, Mrs. Hogencamp stiffened, and Sullivan could almost smell her fear. Of what? he wondered as she ushered them out of earshot into a small office at the back of the house. On closer viewing, he saw that she was older than her attire would suggest; fine wrinkles webbed her eyes, and her skin was beginning to crepe around her neck. Her voice had the texture of coarse gravel. Given her defensive stance, he decided to handle the initial questions himself.

“It's beginning to look like the dead man up in Ottawa may in fact be Lawrence Pettigrew,” he began gravely, explaining that they had already talked to the doctors at the hospital. “Any information you can give us about his recent activities would be helpful.”

She studied her red nails. “Poor Lawrence. I don't know what I can tell you. He was fine the last time I saw him. The doctors had judged that he was well enough to live independently and he was to come here once a week for a group.”

“What date did you last see him?”

“August twenty-fifth. He had an appointment here September eighth, which he didn't keep, but unfortunately I was on holidays and there was some new staff, so no one became concerned until he missed the twenty-second as well. That's when we began searching for him and notified the police.”

Peters peered at her notebook. “Didn't you say he had a group here once a week?”

“Normally. But we're short staffed in the summer.”

Sullivan saw the beginnings of a frown on Peters' face, and he hastened to intervene. “What was his demeanor when you saw him in August?”

Mrs. Hogencamp consulted a book on the desk, but Sullivan suspected it was a delaying tactic. He was sure she'd reread the entry a dozen times since Green's initial call.

“He seemed a little depressed,” she conceded. “I—I thought it was because I was going on holidays.”

“What do you mean?”

She flushed slightly. “I've known Lawrence for years. I nursed on his ward before I came here, and I've always had a soft spot for him. No one ever came to visit him. I guess what I'm saying, Sergeant, is that the staff and patients on his ward became his family. He became upset when one of us left.”

“Upset enough to kill himself, in your opinion?”

“I wouldn't have let him go that day if I'd thought that.”

Her indignation cost her, for she broke into a fit of coughing which left her breathless. “He was just sad, in his vague, blunted, schizy way.”

“Did he say what he planned to do in the next few weeks?”

She gave a wheezy smile. “Lawrence was heavily medicated, and he'd been ravaged by the disease. He didn't plan or set goals the way we do. He just floated along, following his routine and going to his job.”

Sullivan looked up in surprise. “He was working?”

“At a tree nursery, as part of our community partners program. He tended the plants. He was so proud of that job. I was surprised when one day he just didn't show up.”

“Was there any trouble at work? Anything that could have triggered...?”

She shook her head. “No, they were very pleased with him. He didn't socialize with anyone, but he seemed...happy enough.”

“Had he ever had suicidal thoughts in the past? Or any danger signs?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Sometimes, during his floridly psychotic episodes, he'd become extremely agitated. He'd think God was calling him home. Poor, poor lamb.”

Sullivan perked up. “By home you mean the farm?”

“I mean heaven.”

“What was his condition when he was first admitted?”

“His parents had delayed treatment and hadn't recognized how very ill he was. He was in a state of catatonic excitement. Wildly disorganized, agitated, almost panicked. He was lashing out in all directions. They had tied him up like a hog in the back of the truck to get him here.” She shuddered as if at the memory. “Imagine.”

“Are you saying he was violent?”

“Anyone in a panic can be violent if they think they're in danger. They would see it as protecting themselves or someone else from harm.” She frowned and pursed her scarlet lips. “I don't think it matters what he was like back then. He was a very sick boy twenty years ago.”

Remembering Green's theory that violence lay at the root of Lawrence's original committal, Sullivan forced himself to push the issue. “I understand he tried to kill himself. Do you know why?”

She began shaking her head.

“Was it some trouble at home? Someone mentioned a girl.”

Her eyes widened. “A girl? Lawrence?”

“Was there any girl that he might have been interested in? Maybe a girlfriend of his brothers?”

Now she looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I can't imagine. His delusions were so full of evil and sinning, I can't imagine him actually wanting a girl. Or I should say letting himself want a girl. The home was very strict, and I gathered the boys' hands were strapped if they were ever caught masturbating. Lawrence would have seen himself as evil if he'd even had thoughts like that.”

“The circle's closing, Brian!” Green crowed once he'd listened to Sullivan's summary of the interview over the phone. “And I bet this Sophia is at the centre of it. If those notes are to be believed, she was screwing two brothers at the same time.”

There was a pause, during which Green could almost feel Sullivan's weary skepticism through the wires. “Maybe, Mike, but I don't see how I added much hard evidence to your cockamamie theory. We need some independent corroboration from someone who was around back then. Like Tom or Sophia. Any luck finding either of them yet?”

“Not yet. Gibbs tracked Tom to a rehab centre in Toronto, but they say he went
AWOL
days ago.”

“He's back on the streets for sure. A guy like that, been on the booze as long as he has? He's never going to make a go of it.”

Green wasn't inclined to argue. They'd both known a lot of drunks in their years on the force, and Sullivan had much more personal experience with the ravages of drink than Green did. Green's father's idea of a bender was a thimbleful of sweet sacramental wine at Purim and the requisite four at Passover. Before Sullivan's father died of liver failure, he'd packed away whiskey by the truckload.