This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin

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СКАЧАТЬ in Vanier. About to go for lunch.” Sullivan sounded wary.

      “Meet me at the Rideau Street crime scene. Then we’ll go to Nate’s Deli.”

      “The crime scene’s already been released, Green. There will be a hundred people walking over it.”

      “Doesn’t matter. Humour me. There’s a big, juicy smoked meat on rye in it for you.”

      Sullivan chuckled. “You springing for it, I’ll have two.”

      Green printed off the stills Levesque had made from the pawn shop security tape, tucked them into a folder, and headed downstairs to sign out his staff car. He parked a block from the corner where Rosenthal had been beaten and walked slowly up Rideau Street, passing under the security camera of the pawn shop about sixty feet from the alleyway of the crime scene. He studied the photos and tried to recall the movements of the four young suspects. They had been drunk, jostling one another, oblivious to their surroundings. If the old man was standing sixty feet in front of them, they hadn’t noticed him yet. That seemed unlikely. Most people walking down Rideau Street after midnight were instinctively on guard.

      Sergeant Levesque had dissected every inch of the security tape for the night in question. Besides Screech and the young black males, dozens of other parties had passed by. Couples, singles, hookers waiting for the patrons from nearby bars. Levesque’s team had been trying to track them all down, but in truth no one believed any of the others were guilty. Two were simple working girls, a couple were late-night revellers and still others looked like students from nearby University of Ottawa, stumbling home to their dorms. None had carried bats, none had looked poised for violence. None of them looked like skinheads or white supremacists who would target Jews for sport.

      This morning, Screech had taken up his usual position cross-legged on the sidewalk about half a block from the liquor store. He had an empty Tim Hortons cup today, and kept his cart close at his side. The Ident Unit had confiscated his bloody sleeping bag but had given him a brand new one in its stead, so he was taking no chances. At his feet was a stack of stained pencil drawings, mostly poor imitations of Native animal art. Green doubted he sold many, but it allowed him some dignity.

      Green had crossed paths with him in court a few times in his earlier days, but Screech had a vague look this morning, as if not enough brain cells were firing for him to recognize anyone. Green squatted in front of him and introduced himself, trying to ignore the stench. “Have the cops been around to ask you about what you witnessed the night the old man died?”

      It proved too long a sentence, because Screech wrinkled up his nose and presented a gap-toothed smile. “Spare a loonie for a dying man?” he asked, his head bobbing as he extended his Tim Hortons cup.

      Green extracted a ten dollar bill, held it out and tried again. “The night the old man was killed, did you see anything?”

      “Eh?”

      “Screech, come on. Did you see or hear the fight?”

      Screech’s smile fled, and he whipped his head back and forth, spittle flying. He eyed the bill, but made no move to take it.

      “Where were you?”

      “Behind the wall.” He pointed to the brick building of the grocery store up the block. “Didn’t want no trouble.”

      “From who? Was somebody giving trouble?”

      Screech clamped his cracked lips shut. Green took out the photos and laid them all out on the sidewalk in front of him. “Did you see any of these people?”

      Screech flicked a glance at the line-up, then averted his eyes. “Didn’t see nothing.”

      “Come on, now. We’ve helped you out a lot in the past. Got you this new sleeping bag, bought you food, we even buy your drawings sometimes. If you can help us out this one time...” He registered the fear in Screech’s eyes. The street was a dangerous place for the homeless, particularly in the dead of night. Scores were settled in brutal ways. Green tucked the ten dollars into Screech’s shirt pocket and softened his voice. “I won’t tell anyone you told me. But you saw what they did to the poor old man. I just want whoever did it off the streets.”

      Screech cast a wary eye up the street then bent over to study the photos one by one. Green said nothing as nearby an idling transport truck spewed hot fumes into the air. Screech paused at the four black males. “I seen them.”

      “That night?”

      “Yeah. Drunker than me. Hassling some hooker.” He gave his gap-toothed grin.

      “Is that hooker in the pictures?”

      Screech shook his head. Too fast, Green thought. “What was her name?”

      “Don’t know her. Not a regular.”

      “Did any of these kids have a baseball bat?”

      “Eh?”

      “A baseball bat? Did you see one?”

      “Didn’t see nothing. Didn’t want no trouble.”

      Green could almost picture Screech hiding, anxious to stay out of the way of four drunk young men fuelled by testosterone. “I know you didn’t, and you’re doing great. Did you see anyone else in these photos?”

      Reluctantly, the man returned to the photos. He moved along the line-up, then shook his head and shoved himself away. “Nope.”

      Green thanked him, packed up the photos, and headed up the street. The yellow crime scene tape had been removed, although a small tatter of it still hung from the pole of a nearby bus stop. The alleyway had been hosed clean of all traces of blood and brains. People walked over the spot without a care, sneakers shuffling, snakeskin boots clicking, stilettos tapping a pert rhythm. A bus pulled up and disgorged another crowd, which surged forward over the place of the old man’s death.

      Green walked over to the dusty patch of weeds where the body had been dragged. A short distance but still a very cold-blooded act when you’d just pulverised the man’s brain. The body had been rolled on its side against the concrete wall, likely so that it would appear to the casual passerby like a drunk sleeping it off.

      This killer was cool and collected, anticipating the angles.

      Green studied the concrete wall of the building. It was spray-painted with gang tags, like dogs marking a hydrant. The Market was a free-for-all. No turf was safe.

      “Recognize them?” came a deep voice from behind him.

      Green turned to see Sullivan. The big man was looking rumpled and tired, flushed, as if his blood pressure was up again. “Some,” Green said. “Not all. The city is getting new wannabe gangs every day.”

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