This Thing of Darkness (27 page)

Sullivan nodded. “I remember preparing the line-up, stopping to talk to Screech—”

“Do you remember what he said?”

Sullivan nodded. “I asked him about the mystery woman. He...” Sullivan frowned as if searching through the cobwebs of his memory. “He called her Foxy, because she wore a fur coat in the cold weather.”

Green's thoughts raced. A fur coat wasn't conclusive, but it fit the comfortably middle-class neighbourhood of Beacon Hill. Sullivan's colour was marginally better—pink now instead of fuchsia—as he set his mind to work.

“He thinks our suspects hit on her, and she told them to bugger off. That's all I remember.” He flinched as if in pain and the grey horror returned to his face. Green felt his own pulse spike. “What did I do, Mike?”

“You lost control—probably passed out as you said—and hit the police car I'd parked in front of Rosenthal's place. That's all you hit. Unfortunately—” Here Green paused, fighting a sudden tightness in his chest. “I had left my witness in the back seat to wait for me while I spoke...” He stopped. No point in complicating things. Sullivan needed to rest, not become more embroiled in the case. “She was in the car.”

“And I killed her.”

“Your truck killed her.”

A strangled grunt escaped Sullivan's lips. “Fuck you, Mike. You can't make this go away. I knew I was in trouble. I'd been in pain all morning. My gut was churning, and I'd been ignoring it for weeks. Got an appointment with my
GP
for some time in the next decade. I was actually going home early yesterday—”

“But I made you do one last stop.”

Sullivan shook his head. “No, that's Mary's take. I chose this. I chose to ignore the pain, climb behind the wheel of the truck, and set that five thousand-pound death machine in motion.”

“You couldn't have known what would happen.”

“Of course I could have known! How many times have we seen that scenario? Guy thinks it could never happen to him, just heartburn, and boom! I should have pulled over when I felt the light-headedness, and my muscles not obeying me any more...” He stopped. Frowned. “As things closed in, I do remember thinking ‘there's a parked car. If I can just hit that'.”

Green felt sick. Tears were brimming in Sullivan's eyes, and Green felt his own throat constrict. He babbled to stave off thought. “You were doing the best you could. And if that girl hadn't been there, if I hadn't put her there—”

“No! You can't take this off me, Mike!”

“She didn't want to wait. I insisted.”

Sullivan was staring at the floor, his hands hanging limply between his knees and a single tear running down to the tip of his nose. “The difference is, you couldn't have known. I should have. That's why you'll be able to sleep again. Maybe not tonight, but eventually. I won't.”

Eighteen

G
reen started his car, leaned his forehead on the steering wheel and breathed deeply to wrestle his emotions under control. This was no one's fault, he told himself over and over, but he knew it would take more than words to shake the profound guilt they both felt. Sullivan's doctor had ordered him back to bed and prescribed a mild sedative. He was fast asleep before Green was even out the door.

Green had no such oblivion. He wanted nothing more than a few hours with his family, playing with Tony in the park and sharing his distress with Sharon. But she was headed for work soon. At most, he'd be able to steal an hour with her, but not unless he hurried. Finally he fished his cellphone out of his pocket and dialled Levesque's cell. She picked up after the second ring.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Still at the station.”

“Good. According to Screech, the homeless man on that street corner, our four punks tried to pick up the hooker that Saturday night. Probably shortly after that video was taken. So when you do bring Omar in for further questioning—”

“He's on his way.”

“What!”

“A cruiser has just picked him up. I'm setting the video up now.”

Green bit back his outrage. What had happened to his request that she hold off until they had the hooker's story? The woman was insubordinate as well as stubborn. A strangely familiar combination, he conceded with a ghost of a smile, glancing at his watch. It was at most a fifteen-minute drive from Omar Adams' house to the police headquarters. Even allowing for paperwork formalities, Omar would get to the interview room before he did.

“Sir? Do you want to observe?”

Green was surprised that she was asking. They were making progress. He thought of his family waiting for him at home and of Sharon's comforting arms and unflappable common sense. By the time he finished at the police station, she would be long gone to work.

“I do. Hold off until I get there.”

Twenty minutes later he found Levesque in the video control room, watching Omar on camera as she prepared her questions. The young man had adopted his trademark pose, sitting very still with his eyes closed and his arms folded as if in meditation. His expression betrayed no emotion, but he looked gaunt and strained, as if sleep had eluded him recently.

He didn't move a muscle all the time that Green and Levesque looked over her questions, but Green sensed he was attuned to every sound. His eyes flew open the instant Levesque and Charbonneau entered the room. His nostrils flared as he wrestled to bring his fear under control. Green watched while Levesque led him through some preliminary instructions about the process and repeated the caution before asking if he wished to add anything to his previous statement. Omar shook his head.

“My Dad's hotshot lawyer charges a thousand bucks to walk in the door. I don't need him here. I've got nothing to say to you.”

Levesque hid her smile and made a show of consulting her notes. “We have some new evidence. I want to give you a chance to respond. We have a witness who says you have remembered more things about that night.”

“I remember nothing! I had some beer, some bad weed, and I went home. I fell on my way home.”

“The witness says you ran into a hydro pole.”

Omar frowned. He sat very still a few seconds, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

“The witness also says you were running at the time.”

“I don't remember.”

“Running like you were scared. Like you were running from something.”

“Well, that's news to me.”

“You don't remember running down Nelson and along Clarence Street, running smack into a hydro pole and landing in the street?”

Omar was shaking his head, but a shard of memory seemed to have broken loose. He looked off-balance. Uncertain. “Maybe.”

Levesque jotted some notes and studied her file. In the corner, Charbonneau stood by the door, taking notes. They both continued to scribble as the silence lengthened.

“We have another witness who saw you that night, Omar. Saw you approach a prostitute on the corner near where Dr. Rosenthal was killed.”

“I don't remember.”

“Yes, you do. Maybe not all the details, but you remember the hooker.” Levesque laid the picture of the mystery woman on the table. “Does she ring any bells?”

Omar stared at the picture and swallowed, his Adam's apple travelling up and down his lean, curved neck. “She looks familiar. We might have talked to her.”

“About what?”

“About... You know. We were wasted.”

“Looking for action?”

He inclined his head. “I don't remember much. It was mostly Nadif 's idea.”

“What was she like? Nice? Friendly?”

He shrugged. “I remember weird. She was yelling. Nadif said...” He rubbed his face. Blinked his eyes. “I remember he said he'd work a deal.”

“And then what happened? Did you all have sex with her?”

“I don't remember. I don't think...” Omar stopped. His eyes widened, and he seemed to press back against the wall.

“What are you remembering?”

“I was wasted! Dizzy. Sick! I just wanted to get away.”

“From what?”

“I didn't want it. I'm not like that.”

Levesque laughed. “Omar, it was Saturday night. You were wasted, on the make. You expect me to believe you turned down a perfectly good chance to get laid because ‘you're not like that'? She's a hooker! She invited you!”

Omar thrust his lower lip out. “I don't remember. I don't remember what happened with her.”

“Your first time?”

He flinched. “No.”

“Sad not to remember your first time.”

He scowled. Glanced at Charbonneau as if for rescue, but finding nothing but a stone wall, he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “Maybe I did her, maybe I didn't. But whatever I did, it's not a crime.”

“Does your father beat you, Omar?”

He stiffened. “What? No!”

“Never hurt you or tried to toughen you up?”

“He's tough, but he doesn't hit or anything. There's lots of ways to be tough.”

“What other ways?”

Omar scowled. “What the fuck does it matter?”

“He calls you a coward. He said you never had the nerve to fight, never even to defend yourself.”

“He's full of shit.”

“Have you ever been in a fight? Ever used your fists?”

“I'm not an idiot. You think you'll get me bragging, maybe even admitting I beat up helpless old men.”

Point to Omar, Green thought. He's smarter than he seems. This time it was Levesque's turn to shrug. She looked supremely uninterested. “Even the most cowardly, crapped-upon worm turns eventually. Lashes back. I just asked if you ever did.”

“I never had to,” Omar snapped back. “I learned to outsmart the old man and outlast him. Only an idiot lashes out, and that only gets him in trouble.”

“So you get other people in trouble instead, is that it? People who aren't as smart as you, like Nadif and Yusuf.”

“No!” Omar leaned forward, his dark eyes sparking. “There's enough moronic violence in this world. Enough people living in fear, enough people lashing out and taking revenge. I can't stop it, but I don't have to add to it. Not because I'm a coward, but because it has to stop somewhere.”

Green was fascinated by this new glimpse of Omar. An intelligent, impassioned Omar. He leaned into the microphone. “Now's the time to ask about his mother.”

Levesque didn't miss a beat. “Are you talking about your mother, Omar?”

The young man jerked back. “What?”

“Enough people lashing out, taking revenge? You mean her?”

“My mother's seen the worst of it.”

“And given the worst of it.”

Omar was silent. However, he didn't look puzzled, Green noted.

“Did she give the worst of it?”

“My mother has nightmares, yes. She hides all the knives in the house and sees enemies everywhere on the street.”

“What about even inside the house?”

“My father protects her.”

“She gave you those beatings on your back, didn't she.”

“I got beaten in Somalia.”

“Those are more recent than that.”

Green leaned into the microphone again. “Show more sympathy.”

In response, Levesque frowned faintly. “Your mother couldn't help herself, could she?”

Omar's breathing grew ragged, and his large eyes shuttered. “Ask your fucking questions, but leave my mother out of this.”

“It must have made you angry. Even if you understood what she was going through, you were only a child. She was supposed to love you.”

Omar's hand slammed on the table, making both Levesque and Charbonneau jump. “How many families have perfect mothers and fathers? I have a mother. She loves me. The violence isn't her fault, that's why it has to stop.”

It was not the answer any of them expected. Levesque consulted her notes, looking for ammunition to push him further. Green watched Omar, trying to sort out the implications of what he'd said. Omar had let a rare glimpse of himself show through. Intelligence, passion, principle. Not a dumb gangsta wannabe, but a young man in search of a cause.

Green headed down the hall and opened the interrogation room door, startling all three of them in the room. Without introducing himself, he leaned on the table. “What violence must stop, Omar?”

Levesque looked outraged, Omar merely bewildered. “Violence everywhere.”

“Everywhere? Here in Canada? Africa? The Middle East?”

“Everywhere.”

“But some places are worse than others, right? Some countries are worse than others. They hold all the cards— money, power, the biggest armies, the most modern weapons. Right?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How does one simple person like yourself fight all the violence and injustice in the world? You take a stand. You do something, however small, to attack the people who are destroying the world.” Green took the only other chair in the room, beside Levesque and opposite Omar. “I understand how it happens. How you feel. You love your mother, and you know she's lived through unspeakable pain. Pain that she took out on you when you were too young and innocent to understand. You saw how your father tried to shield her. But it wasn't enough, was it? The world is full of people doing cruel and violent things to innocent people. Believe me, I understand how that makes a son feel.”

Omar was watching him warily. “If you're trying to make me say some people deserve to be punished, sometimes I feel like that, but I resist it. That's how the violence keeps going around. And it still doesn't make me lash out at helpless old men.”

“Not helpless. Sam Rosenthal was a fighter. He fought you back.”

“He was still an old man.”

“He was also a Jew.” Green dropped the word like a feather into the silence.