EXCERPT FROM NONE
SO BLINDÉ
Chapter One
The
letter lay in the middle of his new desk amid the jumble of the dayÕs mail. It
had no return address but Inspector Michael Green recognized the handwriting right
away. Jagged and harsh, as if every
pen stroke were a thrust of a sword. The address on the envelope was always the
same:
Michael Green,
474 Elgin St.,
Ottawa, Ontario
No mention of GreenÕs rank or the Ottawa Police Service headquartered
at that address. At first, Green had assumed the man was hoping the letters
would slip past the prisonÕs Visits and Correspondence staff unnoticed, but
over the years heÕd come to see the exclusion of his rank as a subtle sign of
contempt. Green had no doubt the man had kept scrupulous track of his progress
through the ranks and knew every major investigation heÕd headed up in the past
twenty years.
GreenÕs gut tightened as the memories flooded back. HeÕd hoped the letter
campaign was over. After a silence of more than two years, heÕd thought the man
had finally capitulated and moved on. Despite his facility with computers, heÕd
always written the letters by hand, as if the vitriol contained in them demanded
a more intimate touch.
At first Green had read them carefully, hoping for a change of heart, a
confession, or even a reluctant acceptance of some sort, none of which
materialized. In the early years Green had even phoned the prison psychiatrist
and the chaplain, concerned for the manÕs relentless despair, but to no avail.
Recently heÕd just skimmed the letters and added them to the pile in the manÕs
file.
He picked up the cheap white business envelope warily. Usually the
letters were stuffed with pages of meticulous counter-argument refuting the
CrownÕs case against him. But this time the envelope was surprisingly thin. One sheet at most. A change in tactics,
perhaps? Or was he finally running out of words?
Green debated not opening it this time but in the end curiosity, along
with a perverse sense of kinship he had developed with the man over the years,
won out. He slid his finger under the tightly glued flap, slipped out a single
sheet of white paper and unfolded it.
Two words, printed in large block letters – once again a departure
for the man who usually wrote with an elaborate cursive hand – followed
by three exclamation points and underlined three times. Precision
in all things, even now.
HE WINS!!!
Green knew immediately who ÒheÓ
was. No need for explanation or context, only the puzzling question of how? And why now? The knot in his stomach tightened. Despite his
best efforts, the man had gotten to him again. In all his twenty years of
homicide investigations, no killer had haunted him more than this one. Green
had two untenable choices–to dismiss the letter as just one more taunt
from a damaged, embittered manÉ
Or to find out what he meant.
Green excavated his calendar from the clutter on his desk. It was only
mid-morning, but he had his new office to sort out and a dreary budget report
to draft. Worse, his computer calendar was blinking a reminder from his brand
new boss at CID, Superintendent Inge Neufeld, who
wanted a thorough briefing on all personnel, policies, and procedures under her
command. The three dreaded ÔpÕs of his administrative duties.
Green had broken out the champagne a year earlier when former boss
Barbara Devine had finally snagged her much coveted transfer to East Division,
the next rung on her ladder towards chiefdom. Green had even enjoyed the
revolving series of acting superintendents who replaced her, for none had been
around long enough to meddle. Despite her permanent status, Green had expected Inge Neufeld to be no different, at least in the short
term. A Calgary native who had climbed the ranks first in the Calgary Police
and later in the Manitoba RCMP, Neufeld was an outsider with no knowledge of
Ottawa, OttawaÕs unique police culture, or the many competing law enforcement
players in the national capital region. Green had hoped that learning curve would
keep her out of his hair for awhile.
But after less than a week on the job, Inge
Neufeld was already meddling and with this request, she was signaling her
intention to dot every i and
cross every t. Just what I need,
Green grumbled as he hunted for a spare half hour in which to meet with her.
HeÕd hoped to make an early get-away that day. Fresh snow had been falling since early
morning and at least ten more centimetres were
forecast before the January storm finally blew east towards the Maritimes. By
rush hour, traffic would be snarled in snowdrifts, and after a day cooped up
with their daughter, his wifeÕs patience would be fraying. Aviva was tiny for five
months, but she already had the willpower of an Olympian and the lungs of an
opera star. Sharon could barely take her eye off her without the little girl
finding some trouble, and at forty-one Sharon was finding it hard to keep up.
Many of the other domestic chores, including cooking, were left to GreenÕs
dubious skills and if he were late getting home, the entire household might
starve.
Irritated, Green pencilled in ÔsuperÕ in his
late afternoon slot. Then he scribbled ÔJames Rosten fileÕ on a yellow post-it
note, slapped it on the letter and tossed it in his outbox. At that moment a
tall, muscular figure filled his doorway. Staff Sergeant Brian Sullivan tapped
on the doorframe and entered without waiting for an answer. There was no trace
of a smile on his broad, freckled face.
ÒGot a minute?Ó
Green was about to mutter about Neufeld but SullivanÕs expression
stopped him. The two men had been friends for twenty-five years and Green knew
every worry line on his face. There was a new one he didnÕt recognize. Sullivan
was the best NCO heÕd ever worked with, head of the Major Crimes Squad and used
to handling gang executions and grisly domestic murders with equal calm. If Sullivan was worried, it had to be
something more personal.
Sullivan was fifty pounds lighter and in training for next yearÕs
marathon, but less than eighteen months ago the job had nearly killed him. Praying
it wasnÕt a new crisis with his health, Green gestured him inside. Sullivan paused
and cast a dubious eye around the room. After twenty years as a detective and six
as an inspector, Green had finally graduated to an office larger than a utility
closet, with enough space for more than one guest at a time. At the moment,
however, every surface was buried under boxes, binders, and books. Beneath the
chaos, it was still a windowless cube painted dreary institutional beige. Think
of it as taupe, Sharon had said, but taupe bestowed an elegance it did not
deserve. At least beige was a kinder word than some that came to mind.
Sullivan shifted a box of procedure manuals to the floor and pulled the
chair close. ÒWhatÕs up?Ó Green asked.
Sullivan studied the desk as if searching for a way to begin. His eyes
lit on the letter in GreenÕs outbox and his brows arched. ÒRosten?Ó
Green nodded. ÒI was hoping IÕd heard the last of him.Ó
ÒWhat does he say?Ó
ÒA cryptic riddle. He wins. I
assume IÕm supposed to ask who and why. His new strategy to draw me out.Ó
Sullivan frowned. ÒHmm,Ó was all he said.
ÒI know who, of course. RostenÕs been fixated on the stepfather all
along.Ó
Sullivan hadnÕt been GreenÕs partner during the original case, but in
the years since, he had listened to Green relive it many times. He knew what
the case had cost him in terms of sleepless nights and self-doubt. ÒThe
investigation was rock solid. You know that, Mike. The guyÕs just slinging mud
every which way, hoping some of it will stick anywhere but him.Ó
ÒBut itÕs just such an idŽe fixe. ThatÕs what bothers me. Even
his counsellors and the chaplain could never shake
it. Reverend Goodfellow once told me he thought Rosten actually believed it.Ó
Green thought back over the Jackie Carmichael case. It had begun as a Missing
Persons involving a Carleton University student, his first real assignment as a
newly minted junior detective barely out of training camp. For a week he had
probed doggedly into her life, interviewing family, friends, and witnesses
including Rosten, before her half-buried body was discovered in a remote forest
outside the city.
The discovery had been heartbreaking. During that first week Green had
formed bonds with her family and suspicions as to her killer, and so when the
Ontario Provincial Police parachuted a team of investigators in from Toronto to
take over the case, those close to her continued to seek him out to share their
raw pain and outrage. The horror of the case haunted his nights. Young,
idealistic and impassioned, he had ignored every order and article of police
protocol to continue working on the case.
In the years since, as the letters from Rosten kept coming, heÕd asked
himself a thousand times whether that horror had coloured
his judgement. Made him see only what he wanted to
see.
ÒCops and chaplains arenÕt mind readers, Mike,Ó Sullivan said, Ònot
even that old fox Archie Goodfellow. We canÕt see inside a guyÕs head. A really
smart psychopath can fool even the best of us, and Rosten was smart. HeÕs been
messing with your head for years.Ó
Green fished the letter out of his outbox and handed it across the
desk. ÒSo this is his next game?Ó
Sullivan studied the page. Slowly he shook his head. ÒMore like a
commentary. ThatÕs what I came to tell you. Just heard on the locker room
grapevine that the stepfather died last week.Ó
GreenÕs eyes widened. ÒMurdered?Ó
Sullivan shook his head. ÒHeart attack shovelling
snow. At least, that was the ER docÕs diagnosis.Ó
ÒAny chance it was not?Ó
SullivanÕs lips twitched into a smile. ÒYou think James Rosten reached
out from his prison cell and cast some kind of voodoo spell?Ó
Green didnÕt laugh. He retrieved the note and studied the words. ÒSo thatÕs
what Rosten thinks? Now that Lucas Carmichael is dead, he will never be brought
to justice?Ó
Sullivan nodded. ÒAnd James Rosten will never be cleared.Ó
Green arrived at the Carmichael home almost half an hour late. Traffic
on the eastbound Queensway had been excruciatingly slow. YesterdayÕs snowfall had
been ploughed from the roads but lingered in slushy ridges along the edges,
splattering the cars and slicking the roads. Rush hour traffic out to the
sprawling suburb of Orleans was bad in the best weather but with slippery roads
and poor visibility added to the mix, the freeway became immobilized.
The village of Navan was tucked into the
middle of dairy farm country south of Orleans. When Green had last visited, it
still had much of its original flavour as a trading
hub for farm produce and supplies, but now it was just the rural fringe of
sprawling suburbia. Century-old farm houses and tiny wartime bungalows like the
CarmichaelÕs sat side by side with modern brick superhouses.
Green barely recognized the place.
This was a courtesy call. Green knew he owed it to Marilyn Carmichael
as well as to her remaining children, but he was dreading it. In his years as a
major crimes investigator he had learned to cope with the callous brutality of
killers and the tragedy of lost lives, but the anguish of the survivors still
haunted him, especially when the loss of an offspring was involved.
When he first met Marilyn Carmichael, sheÕd been like a tiger
possessed, eyes flaming and teeth bared as she whipped the investigators on,
insisting first that her missing daughter was alive but in danger, and later
that her death must not go unanswered. It was only once the trial began and the
relentless spotlight of the media and police shone full strength on her own
family and her daughterÕs last hours, that she began to fold in on herself, rebuffing
sympathy and shrivelling in defeat.
In the years since, Green had come to understand the pattern. Survivors
needed a reason to go on, a cause to embrace, a
purpose for their unbearable loss. Sometimes they founded campaigns, set up
scholarships or embarked on pilgrimages of memory. Almost always they threw
themselves into the case, becoming the most relentless of investigators and
prosecutors. As her daughterÕs case stretched into months, Green had kept in
constant communication with Marilyn, updating, explaining, reassuring, and often
just listening. He had watched helplessly as her passion slowly gave way to the
empty ache of loss.
The past ten years had slipped by without contact, however, and now he
hardly recognized her when she opened the door. Her once glossy auburn hair was
completely white, plastered thin and lifeless against her scalp. Her eyes were
bruised with grief and her petite frame was lost inside a bulky knit sweater.
He knew she wasnÕt yet sixty-five, but she looked ninety. Her eyes lit at the
sight of him, however, and for an astonished moment he thought she was going to
give him a hug.
Instead she ducked her head, flustered, and backed away to lead him
inside. ÒAny trouble remembering where the house was?Ó
He wasnÕt about to tell her of his battles with the Queensway or his
GPS, which had been adamant that her little backcountry road was on the
opposite side of the village.
ÒI had a good map,Ó he said.
She shot him a very small smile. ÒYouÕd need one. Google and GPSs donÕt
have any idea. ThatÕs actually a blessing when youÕre trying to avoid people.Ó
Green knew the family had considered selling the house shortly after
the murder, uncertain theyÕd be able to live in the house that still echoed
with their daughterÕs carefree chatter. Where neighbours
gossiped behind half-drawn curtains and shook their heads in pity. But in the
end, the memories themselves bound them to it. This remote wartime bungalow,
tiny and squat behind its screen of overgrown spruce, was still suffused with the
scents and sounds of their girl.
ÒEverythingÕs a bit worn out, but then, so are we.Ó Marilyn had stopped
in the centre of the dark living room as if
embarrassed. Heavy drapes hung over the bay window and an assortment of brocade
chairs and loveseats were crammed into the boxy space. Green remembered the
chairs from twenty years ago, as if time had stopped for the Carmichaels at
that time.
Marilyn gestured to one of them. ÒIÕve made tea. I thought on a day
like this, youÕd appreciate the warmth. I even remembered you take it with
lemon.Ó
Despite her forty years in Canada, her speech still retained the lilt
of Yorkshire, and at first sheÕd insisted that any tea worth drinking needed
two tablespoons of milk in the bottom of the cup. She had even tried to teach
him and his partner how to make a proper pot. A woman who
relied on ritual and bustle to keep the waves of panic at bay.
Recognizing this, Green accepted and followed her towards the kitchen.
The walls were lined with her watercolour paintings
– sunny flowers, lacy pines and rocky bluffs – now sapped of life
in the dingy hall light. One, depicting the ruins of
an old limestone farmhouse long reclaimed by purple wildflowers, had once hung
with pride over the fireplace but was now relegated to the darkest corner. A metaphor for her life, he thought.
The kitchen too was narrower and shabbier than he remembered, the once
white sink mottled with stains. ÒIÕm sorry about Lucas, Marilyn,Ó he ventured.
ÒAre the kids home?Ó
Her lips tightened. ÒTheyÕre coming. ThatÕs why weÕre holding off on
the memorial service until next month. So Gordon can arrange to get here from
France, and JuliaÉÓ
Her hesitation matched his own. ÒHow is Julia?Ó
Marilyn busied herself spooning loose tea into a cracked china teapot
covered in roses. ÒShe has a new job in Costa Rica now. SheÕs not one to stay
in touch, you know, but I think sheÕs finally doing okay.Ó
ÒWill she come home too?Ó
ÒI donÕt know. It was harder on her, you know, losing her younger
sister, and she never really – well, she wasnÕt that fond of Luke, to be
honest.Ó
Green refrained from comment. Not fond was a massive understatement.
Julia had been moody and changeable when her sister died, and although she
accused everyone close to her of failing Jackie in some way, she was especially
hard on Lucas, at first even blaming JackieÕs disappearance on his drinking. She
had barely spoken to him for over a year and had moved out to sleep on a
friendÕs basement couch throughout the trial. Marilyn had always made excuses
for her but Green had wanted to strangle the girl, for it was as if Marilyn had
lost two daughters at once.
Now once again, as a woman in her forties, the daughter was putting her
own needs first.
Marilyn handed him a plate of shortbread. Her eyes locked his in a
silent warning. ÔDonÕt say a word.Õ
He didnÕt. She smiled. ÒYou
havenÕt changed a bit. You still donÕt look a day over thirty.Ó
When Green was a rookie officer, he had regarded his freckles, sandy hair
and slight build as a hindrance, but over the years heÕd learned to appreciate
the value of being nondescript. And underestimated.
Even now, only a few wisps of silver at his temples hinted at his age. ÒWorkÕs
given me a few gray hairs.Ó
ÒSo youÕre an inspector now. La-dee-dah.Ó
He laughed. ÒAll I had to do was live long enough.Ó
ÒOh, I doubt that. Rosten may have been your start, but youÕve done
well for yourself since. Do you
still enjoy it?Ó
ÒNot the paperwork or the office politics, butÉÓ He searched for words
to describe what he enjoyed about his job and was surprised when none came to
mind. He remembered himself as Marilyn had known him;
not as a senior Mandarin drawing up budgets and shuffling personnel around but
down in the muck of the streets, railing simultaneously against injustice and
villainy and against the strictures and bureaucracy of his job.
ÒBut you like being the boss?Ó she asked, with a knowing twinkle in her
eye.
He grinned. ÒIt comes in handy. But I miss the real policing.Ó
The kettle whistled. As she poured water into the teapot, she nodded to
his left hand. ÒYouÕve a new woman in your life, I see.Ó
ÒI do. And two more children, plus a dog. You
wouldnÕt recognize me.Ó
She laughed, but her joy was fleeting. The remark had reminded them
both of her own loss. She handed him his tea and led
the way to the living room. ÒIn a way, I suppose heÕs at peace now,Ó she said,
choosing a hard-backed chair facing the window. ÒHe never was during his life.
Not for the past twenty years.Ó
As he searched in vain for a worthy platitude, she peered at him
through the gloom. After a pause she rose to draw the drapes back a few inches,
allowing bleached winter sun to leak into the room. She stood squinting out at the snow, her
face hidden. ÒWe tried to move on, you know. I was never a quitter and I know
Jackie would not have wanted that. Of course, at first there was all that
horrid suspicion, but even after RostenÕs conviction, there were those who
still thoughtÉ Luke never really escaped the cloud, did he? And that dreadful
man himself, throwing up every roadblock, every argument. Even warning me to
watch out for Luke with Julia.Ó She broke off. Took a deep breath. Shook her
head sharply and turned back to him.
ÒIÕm sorry, Mike. ItÕs been difficult watching Luke fade away over all
these years. At first he tried to keep working at the shop, but once they started
cutting back his hoursÉ The shop was all he had to hold onto, really. Jacqueline
had been his favourite. Well, she would be, wouldnÕt she. She was a sunny girl, never difficult like Julia. Never
gave us a momentÕs worry. But itÕs no use dwelling on that. It was nice of you
to drop by, Mike. Not too many people have. I guess they find it awkward and to
be honest, weÕve kept to ourselves. Easier that way.
Normal chitchat was such a struggle.Ó
She returned to her chair and picked up her cup. ÒWill you be coming to
the memorial?Ó
He hadnÕt intended to. He hadnÕt meant to re-enter this familyÕs life
after all these years. But he found himself nodding.