This drawing showed the man from the front. He was sitting on a scooter with his helmet on and the visor down. He boots were lace-up.
“You notice anything else?”
“Yep. His pants. They were nice.”
“What do you mean nice?”
“Good material. Like my mommy uses.”
Kennicott smiled. “Anything else?”
“Well . . . ” She became shy and started to giggle. She looked at her mother.
Kennicott looked at her mother too. “What is it?”
Sawney laughed. “Tell him,” she said to his daughter.
Sadura gave her shoulders a big shrug, took her pencil, and pointed to the backside of the man in her second drawing. “He was white.”
“Oh,” Kennicott said. He caught Alpine’s eye. “How could you tell, if he was wearing gloves and a helmet?”
She put her hand over her face. Embarrassed. “His bum,” she said. “It wasn’t roundy like a black man’s bum. It was, you know, kind of flat like a white man’s.”
Her mother burst out laughing. Sadura took her hands away from her face, exposing a brilliant row of white teeth. Kennicott looked at Alpine. He was grinning too.
BEING A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE IN AS DIVERSE A CITY AS TORONTO MEANT THAT ARI GREENE
had been to every form of funeral ritual imaginable. Sikh cremations, Buddhist candle lightings, outdoor Muslim funeral prayers, Jewish shivas, Irish wakes, Catholic masses, and many “visitations” at local funeral homes.
He could understand the convenience and functionality of these places, but he found them creepy. The high-ceilinged, beige rooms with fake wainscotting and bland carpets. The ubiquitous piped-in music. The pastel landscape paintings. The overstuffed furniture. Worst of all was the perpetually unctuous staff.
A common feature of these visitations was a posterboard filled with pictures of the life lived. This afternoon, two days after Raglan’s murder, there was a large crowd at the J. J. Patterson and Sons Funeral Home in Welland. Greene had slipped in unseen and was able to take his time looking at the photo tribute to Jennifer.
It began with baby pictures of her held by her mother on a blanket in a tiny backyard. Then shots of her as a toddler standing with her father, her brown hair in pigtails, beside the family station wagon. Photos of her waving a Canadian flag at tanker ships passing through the Welland Canal. She’d told Greene it was a mile from her house, and in the springtime, once the ice broke up on the Great Lakes, she’d ride her bike down there every day after school to watch the ships from all over the world. There were several graduation portraits: from high school, from university and law school. But the one that caught his attention was from police college. She looked radiant, happier in that picture than in any of the others.
Finally, Greene looked at a stylized wedding photo of a very young Jennifer and Howard, followed by pictures of her holding each of her three newborns, a series of Christmas snapshots of the growing family. At the bottom of the board were newspaper clippings of some of her high-profile cases.
“Detective Greene?” a voice said behind him. He turned to see Raglan’s husband, Howard Darnell. The moment he’d been dreading.
Darnell was shorter than Greene had imagined he would be. And fitter too. Raglan had told Greene that when she left the marriage, her husband had been twenty-five pounds overweight and he had begun to exercise for the first time in years. It looked like he was still at it.
Greene pointed at one of the more recent family photos. “You must be Jennifer’s husband.”
“Howard Darnell.” He put out his hand and Greene shook it. “I recognize you from some of the newspaper photos. Jennie told me many times how much she liked working with you. I know that you two did a lot of tough cases together.”
“She was an excellent lawyer,” Greene said. He remembered that, early on, he had once called Raglan “Jennie” and she’d gotten red with anger. “Don’t ever call me by that name,” she had said. “That’s what everyone called me at home, and I can’t stand it.”
“Jennie was good at anything she put her mind to,” Darnell said. “Anything.”
The words could have sounded bitter, especially coming from a man who’d lost his job and was afraid to tell his wife about it. Then, after she was murdered, he had found out she’d been fooling around on him. But instead, Darnell sounded proud of her. Greene thought of what Kennicott had said about him – he seemed to be a man who loved his wife.
But he had to be wondering who his wife was meeting every Monday morning, Greene thought. By now he would have figured out that this was not just a onetime thing but had gone on for at least six weeks.
Greene played back in his mind the conversation he’d just had with Darnell. The first things out of someone’s mouth often showed what they were really thinking.
Jennie told me many times how much she liked working with you. I know that you two did a lot of tough cases together.
Was Darnell suspicious of him? Greene wondered. Or was he just being paranoid? He couldn’t tell. But he knew for sure that Darnell would hate him one day if he ever found out.
“Detective?” Darnell said.
Greene realized he had drifted off. “It’s very shocking. I can’t imagine how it is for you. How are your children?”
Darnell pointed across the room. There was a tall young boy, awkward in an
ill-fitting blue suit. Beside him stood a shorter boy, wearing black jeans and a T-shirt. To his side was a girl who looked like a young Jennifer.
“I think we’re all in shock. Numb,” Darnell said. “We were here at this same funeral home last winter for Jennie’s mother. Who would believe we’d be back here now for her?”
A man in a cheap suit came up beside them. “Howard, I’m so sorry,” he said.
Darnell turned. “Andrew. Been too long.”
“Katherine couldn’t be here. She’s on a cruise with some of the girls from her church group. You remember. She was on the field hockey team with Jennie.”
Darnell put his finger up to his friend and turned back to Greene. “Detective, if you don’t mind, please say a word to my children. They know Jennie did those murder trials with you. It would mean a lot to them.”
“Of course,” Greene said.
Darnell went back to his old friend. “How’s the store doing?” he asked. “That Walmart in St. Catharines couldn’t have helped.”
Greene took a final look at the photos of Jennifer, knowing he’d never see them again. He made himself walk away.
From a distance he glanced back and saw that Darnell was still talking to his old friend. The man was unbelievably polite. He had a smile fixed on his face, but he kept glancing over at his three kids.
Greene spotted Daniel Kennicott on the other side of the room, speaking to a handful of young Crown attorneys. He had the feeling Kennicott had been watching him. They met in the middle of the room.
“Sad,” Kennicott said.
“Worst part of the job,” Greene said.
“What do you think of the husband?”
Greene disliked the way some officers referred to the people they met during an investigation by their roles and not their names. New cops often did it because they thought it sounded important, just as interns in hospitals wear a stethoscope around their necks, or young lawyers tote the Criminal Code to court under their arm.
“ ‘The husband?’ ” he said. “I think you mean Howard Darnell.”
“Sorry.” Kennicott frowned. “Point taken. What does your gut tell you about him?”
“That you’re right. He loved his wife, he loves his kids, he’s extraordinarily considerate of others. Hard to see him as a killer.” Greene nodded toward the
children, standing against a far wall. “If you arrest their father, you’d better be right, because their lives will go over the cliff.”
“I know,” Kennicott said. “Especially for the oldest one. I mean, Aaron.”
A middle-aged couple approached the children. The tall boy in the suit smiled and shook their hands. His smaller brother looked away.
“He looks pretty okay,” Greene said. “It’s the one in the T-shirt I’d wonder about.”
Kennicott snorted. “That’s Aaron. His younger brother’s about half a foot taller. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”
Greene stared at the short boy. “He’s nineteen?”
“And looks about fourteen, just like I told you.”
Greene kept staring at the boy, who, perhaps sensing his gaze, looked up at him and scowled. Don’t take it personally, he told himself. The kid had been scowling at everyone.
“Darnell suggested I say hello to his kids,” Greene said. “Maybe you can introduce me.”
“Glad to,” Kennicott said.
They walked over together.
The younger son, Barry, saw them approach and smiled. Aaron looked away. Corinne, the daughter, was talking to a friend
“This is Detective Greene,” Kennicott said. “He worked on a few very large murder trials with your mom.”
“We’ve heard about you,” Barry said, shaking Greene’s hand. “People keep telling us she was a good lawyer.”
“She was very talented and very committed,” Greene said.
Aaron, who wore a T-shirt that had the logo
AARON 8
on both front and back in graffiti-style letters, turned his head. “Did you like working with her?” he asked in a snarky voice.
“Everyone did,” Greene said.
“Thanks for coming,” Barry said. Classic middle child, playing the role of the peacemaker, Greene thought. Compensating for his rude older brother.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” Kennicott said. Clearly he’d established a good rapport with the family, which was impressive.
Greene had to get out of there. Away from the beige walls, the sickening music, the angry son, and the loving husband he’d betrayed.
“I’ve got to go,” he said to Kennicott, probably too hastily, as they walked away.
“You okay?” Kennicott asked.
“Fine, just tired,” Greene said.
Kennicott gave him a concerned look
Greene knew he wasn’t a very good liar.
Out on the paved parking lot, the sun was hot. He steadied himself against the side of his car and closed his eyes. This all felt like a nightmare without end.
OVER THE YEARS AWOTWE AMANKWAH HAD NURTURED MANY SOURCES AMONG JUDGES,
court reporters, clerks, registrars, Crown attorneys, and defence lawyers – anyone who could give him inside information about what was really going on in the courts. None was better than Nancy Parish, a defence lawyer he first met years ago, playing pickup hockey late at night at the outdoor rink in front of City Hall. It was the perfect place for them to get together, trade secrets, and then hit the ice, which they did a few times each winter.
When the ice was gone, one of the spots where they met was Ireland Park, a hard-to-find patch of green on the waterfront, tucked in behind the abandoned Canada Malting silos that the city now owned and had no idea what to do with. Five eerie statues of emaciated men and women, erected to commemorate the thousands of victims of the Irish potato famine who’d fled to the shores of the city back in 1847, were scattered about the grounds.
Amankwah was looking at the statue called
The Apprehensive Man
, reading the plaque at its base that described the outbreak of typhus among the Irish refugees. The city had built twelve fever sheds a few blocks from here, at King and John streets, and sent more than eight hundred immigrants there to die.
“So much for Toronto the Good,” a female voice said behind him.
He turned and saw Parish. “In Africa, at least we send sick people across the river to die,” he said.
“This city used to be a horrible place,” she said. “My ancestors were on one of those death ships. When they got here, they were stuck in downtown ghettos. Weren’t allowed in public parks in Protestant neighbourhoods.”
“And when my parents came here, we were stuck in the burbs.” He smiled. “Any luck?”
Amankwah had started to dig into the cops-and-prostitutes story. The day after the hockey-player trial collapsed, he’d tried to contact Deirdre “the After Date” Acton. But her website was down and every phone number he could find
had been disconnected. He called Parish and they agreed to meet here at six. She knew a lot of cops, and she promised to get one of them to check for Acton’s name on the police database.
Parish pulled a brown envelope out of the large purse slung over her shoulder. “Here’s her record.” She handed it to him.
“And?” he asked, opening it.
“It’s about what you’d expect, up until two years ago. A few shoplifting charges. Two soliciting. One for giving a false name to the cops.”
He looked at the printout. Acton had been fined a few times and two years earlier had spent thirty days in jail. Then nothing. “Looks like she cleaned up her act,” he said.
“Don’t be so sure,” Parish said. “Look at the cases-withdrawn section on the second page.
Parish was right. In the last two years, Acton had been charged with soliciting four times, and four times the charges were dropped. “I guess she finally got a good defence lawyer.” He chuckled.
Parish had a great sense of humour and often drew funny cartoons. But she wasn’t smiling. “I’ve got something for you that could turn out to be important. You know I represent a lot of hookers.”
“You have for years.”
“They’re always saying things like ‘A cop made me give him a blow job to reduce the charges’ or ‘A cop took half my night’s earnings and insisted on a hand job.’ ”
“We’ve all heard that before,” he said.
“A few months ago, I represented a high-class prostitute who said the cops had put her up to charging a banker client with assault.” She took a look around. A young couple was standing by another sculpture and an old woman with a shopping bag was feeding pigeons bits of white bread.
Parish took his arm and walked him over the edge of the park by the lake. “They arrested the poor guy and took him to the back of the station. Smacked him around a bit with a phone book so they wouldn’t leave any bruises, then demanded five thousand dollars to yank the case. They charged her too, with soliciting. She said all she got was five hundred bucks for her trouble. And the cop who ran the whole thing demanded a blow job before she got paid and the soliciting charge was dropped. She said he likes to slap women around.”