Читать книгу This Thing of Darkness - Barbara Fradkin - Страница 10

Five

Sergeant Levesque was a good actress. She stood in the middle of Sam Rosenthal’s living room, surrounded by stacks of files and textbooks, her hands on her hips and her head cocked. Her lips smiled, but her eyes smouldered, midnight blue and threatening. Like a distant thunderstorm, Green thought, chuckling at the image that had leaped to his mind.

“Inspector Green,” she said. “Not much to report yet. We just got the search warrant, and we’ve been here only a half hour.”

“I know,” he replied blithely. “I’m just visiting on my lunch hour.” He looked around at the work already done—drawers opened, filing cabinets emptied and cushions overturned— and felt a twinge of frustration. He remembered when he searched a victim’s home, back in the days when he didn’t sit on committees or jump to fulfill every whim from the brass above, but instead spent his shift on the road, running his own cases and calling his own shots.

Back then he would have spent half an hour just studying the apartment, getting a sense of the occupant, sketching and absorbing impressions before he disturbed a single thing. Sullivan used to call it “communing with the dead”, and he wasn’t far off. The victim told him a lot in those thirty minutes, from what pictures he chose to hang where and what books he had on display to what kitchen utensils were near at hand.

In most homicide cases, the victim’s identity was key to his death. In this one, Sergeant Levesque thought it irrelevant. She might be right, but it disturbed Green’s sense of due respect. He began his own walkabout, trying to picture the room as Rosenthal would have left it. Everything had an old, slightly-scuffed appearance, but the man had clearly once had money as well as taste. A dining room set of mahogany and velvet was shoehorned into the small nook allotted to it off the living room. An antique roll-top desk with leaded glass bookshelves and cubbyholes for stationery and supplies sat beside the bay window, and matching wing chairs bracketed the cavernous Victorian fireplace. A Persian rug in faded blue and red tones covered the scuffed oak floor.

The man had chosen a soft blue paint throughout the apartment to complement the many paintings that hung in every space. Green was no expert in art but recognized an eclectic mix of styles and subjects. Some were from Israel— a soft watercolour of the Jerusalem skyline, a vibrant acrylic of Jews dancing at the Western Wall. Some were rugged Canadian landscapes of pine trees and lakes. But the most striking were the portraits. Not happy or posed but raw and real. People lost in thought, lonely, isolated and in pain.

Rosenthal had spent his whole career dealing with human pain, yet he had not created an oasis in his own home. His home reflected his experience with life. Raw, lost, lonely. None of the artists were recognizable names, at least to Green, but he suspected Rosenthal had not bought the paintings for their investment value but for the feelings they evoked. Love of his spiritual homeland, awe of the Canadian wilderness, and above all, compassion for human pain.

In contrast to the living area, which was stuffed with treasures, the bedroom was stark, as if it were not a place he enjoyed. Tiny and utilitarian, it held only a single bed against one wall covered with a frayed blue duvet, an antique dresser with a sculpted mirror, and an entire wall of shabby bookshelves stuffed with books. Medical and scientific tomes shared space with philosophy, mysticism and provocative works like The Mindful Brain, An Unquiet Mind and The Doctor and the Soul by Victor Frankl. Green picked the latter up idly. He was familiar with the Viennese psychiatrist who had found a path to spiritual meaning amid the horrors of the Nazi death camps. Perhaps Rosenthal had a more profound grasp of human health and illness than his detractors understood, Green thought, replacing the book reluctantly before resuming his search.

Neatly arrayed on top of the dresser were a hairbrush, comb, shoe horn, some pill bottles and a small leather box, which the detectives had already opened. It contained cufflinks, tie clips, a gold watch with a broken face and a man’s opal ring with an engraving inside the band. “To my darling, June 16, 1980”. A birthday or anniversary present from his wife?

Green peered at the labels on the pill bottles. Advil, multivitamins, Allegra, Tums and an herbal medicine that claimed to guarantee sleep. He jotted down the name. Not surprisingly considering his recent concern with over-medication, Rosenthal did not appear to be taking a single drug prescribed by a doctor, which was unusual among today’s elderly. At last count, Green’s father took eight pills a day.

Beside the bed was a night table on which sat a glass of water, a pair of reading glasses and a teetering stack of novels, one of which lay open face down, By the Time You Read This, by Giles Blunt. Green glanced at the back cover. A Canadian mystery set in a northern town and featuring an apparent suicide. So the man didn’t shy away from the anguish of his profession even in his minutes before sleep. Also in the stack of novels were other Canadian literary titles, along with classics from Dickens and Dostoevsky. Just like his art, his reading tastes were eclectic and sophisticated, yet a touch sad.

The dresser drawers had already been opened to reveal a jumble of underwear and socks, all either black or white. Green was mildly surprised that the clothes were not folded, since he had formed a picture of a solitary, fastidious man with set routines and perhaps too much time on his hands. Lower drawers contained sweaters, cotton slacks and golf shirts, in blacks, blues and beiges. Not a man inclined to flamboyance, certainly. There were no jeans or T-shirts in the mix, suggesting a degree of formality in the appearance he presented. Fits with the three-piece suit, Green thought.

Green glanced in the closet, under the bed, and in the bathroom, but none held any surprises. Except one. He returned to the living room.

“There’s no sign of a computer. I know he’s over seventy, but he’s educated and worldly. Seems unlikely.”

Sergeant Levesque looked up from the stack of correspondence she was sorting. “A laptop was on the list of things he reported stolen.”

Green felt a flash of annoyance. A laptop was an obvious target for thieves, but nonetheless one that might contain crucial information. He should have been informed. “What else was on the list?”

“Some jewellery—his late wife’s diamond necklace and ring—a box of silverware and some papers from his filing cabinet. Typical stuff.”

Green frowned at her dismissive assessment. To his mind, it was not typical at all. The paintings had not been taken, which suggested the thief was not an art connoisseur, but papers would be of little value to a thief. “What kind of papers?”

She shrugged.“He wasn’t sure. When he came home, there were papers from the filing cabinet all over the floor. Most of that stuff he had not looked at since he retired. There were professional articles, patient files, workshop notes.”

The filing cabinet had now been emptied into piles on the floor, and Sergeant Levesque’s partner was sifting through them. Bafflement and frustration showed in his face. “He doesn’t seem to have bothered sorting them out when he put them back after the break-in,” the young constable said. “Just stuffed them all back in. I’m looking for personal papers like his will and insurance policies, but so far all I’ve found is this.” He held up an empty file folder. “It’s labelled ‘will’, but there’s nothing in it.”

Levesque let out a low whistle and brandished a paper she’d picked up. “Well, somebody might want to find the will. He owned this house completely—and in this neighbourhood that’s probably worth over a million—and this investment statement says he’s got almost three and a half million in an account. His son is going to have a nice surprise.”

“How’s the search for him coming?” Green asked.

Suspicion flashed across Levesque’s face, and for an instant she even hesitated to answer. “Nothing yet. Gibbs is still trying to find out his name.”

“Likely David or John. I’d concentrate on the States somewhere.”

Levesque swung around on her junior partner, her ponytail snapping. She gestured to the papers strewn on the floor. “There should be a name somewhere in there.”

“Find any kind of legal document, and that’ll give you his lawyer’s name,” Green said. “The lawyer will have his will on file and probably the son’s coordinates as well.”

The junior detective began pawing through papers, obviously eager to impress. “I found his income tax records for the last few years. They show lots of donations to charity —United Way, Canadian Mental Health Association, United Jewish Appeal and a bunch of charities in Israel. No lawyer’s name, but I found a dental bill.”

“Good. Call to see if he has recent X-rays.” Levesque left the young man dialling his cell while she turned her attention back to the correspondence on the dead man’s desk. Green resumed his stroll around the apartment, not gathering impressions this time, but searching for clues to the son’s identity. Photos or letters. There was a large portrait of a woman he assumed to be the late wife hanging on the living room wall, and several photos of her in silver frames on the dining table and desk. She was always hamming it up, as if she hated formality and enjoyed teasing the photographer. To Green’s surprise, however, there was not a single photo of a boy or younger man, nor of small children who might be grandchildren.

Green thought about his own father, an elderly widower , for whom Green, Sharon and the children were his whole world. Every spare surface in Sid Green’s small senior’s apartment was proudly covered with photos. In contrast, Sam Rosenthal’s apartment felt extraordinarily lonely.

As he stood in the centre of the bedroom, he noticed piles of boxes stored at the back of the closet. Shoe boxes of old correspondence, cartons of old clothes, and at the very back, an old dusty banker’s box tucked beneath a plastic bin of winter scarves.

He dragged the box into the room and peered inside at the yellowed stack of old files, inwardly cheering at the sight of the word “Will” scrawled across the tab of one of them. Inside was a sheaf of legal-sized papers, with the words “The last will and testament of Samuel Yitzak Rosenthal” printed in old-fashioned script across the front page. He pulled out the papers and scanned for the date: November 16, 1999. Written not long after his wife’s death, it was probably his most recent will.

Green flipped rapidly through the pages, noting that Rosenthal had named the lawyer who’d drafted the will as executor of the estate. The executor was instructed to sell his property, pay all the bills and distribute the remainder of the estate as follows.

Large sums had been bequeathed to charities. Three were predictable—$100,000 each to the Rideau Psychiatric Hospital, the Canadian Mental Health Association, and the United Way—all of which helped troubled people in need. But others, like the Humane Society and the Bytown Association of Rescued Canines, were unexpected. Green had seen no sign of pets in the apartment.

Besides the half million dollars to various charities, two million were to be used to endow the Evelyn Rosenthal Memorial Chair in cancer research at the University of Ottawa. Green wondered if the man had been grateful for the care his wife had received at the Ottawa Hospital or if he’d found it profoundly lacking.

The final page was most telling of all. Whatever crumbs were left over after the disposition of the specific bequests, had been left to the son, David Joseph Rosenthal. By Green’s rough calculations based on the worth of the house and the investments, that was still close to two million. Hardly pocket change. However, a line had been drawn through his son’s name and the word “no” had been scrawled over it. Green’s excitement surged.

He took the will into the living room, where the junior detective had made little headway with the pile of papers on the floor.“Here’s the will, the son’s name, and the lawyer. A lot was left to charities, but the rest is slated for his son. But I think you’ll find the last page interesting.”

Sergeant Levesque plucked the will from Green’s hands. “Where did you find it?”

“In the back of the closet.” Green could see that she was bewildered and suspicious, but unwilling to challenge the serendipity of his find. He shrugged. “Old people have their quirks. My father hides his passport and bank records in a cavity under the floorboards as if he’s still in the Warsaw ghetto.”

Levesque scanned the will, arching her eyebrows briefly at the last page before setting the will aside. “I will follow this up, of course, and contact the lawyer for the son’s address. But the will doesn’t seem too relevant to our investigation at this time. We have a whole list of gang members to check out first.”

“Beneficiaries are always relevant in a homicide investigation.”

“He’s been a beneficiary since 1999. I don’t see why he’d suddenly decide to kill his father now.”

Green frowned at her. “It looks as if his father may have had second thoughts. And the son needs to be investigated, whether Rosenthal wanted him disinherited or not.” He studied the resentment and uncertainty on her face and tried to soften his tone. “The way the economy is now, the son may have fallen on hard times and recently incurred huge debts.”

She flipped her ponytail in exasperation.“With due respect, sir, we don’t know what that ‘no’ means. Maybe the father was angry, then later regretted it. It was all a long time ago.”

“I’ll give you more men, if that’s an issue.”

“It is not an issue. Priorities are the issue. For sure this son will get my attention, along with all the gang punks in the city.” She caught herself and forced a tight smile. “But thank you for the offer, sir. I will let Staff Sergeant Sullivan know if I need it.”

Green caught the borderline insubordination in the woman’s retort and was tempted to call her on it, but stopped himself. She was like looking in a mirror, ten years ago, when he thought he knew everything. If she was as good as Sullivan believed, she would learn better soon enough.

Green forced himself to behave for the rest of the day, and by five o’clock he had a passable action plan drafted for Superintendent Devine to address the spike in domestic assaults. It would never be implemented, of course, but that wasn’t the point. It was ammunition for debates on the police budget at City Council, not to mention feathers for Barbara Devine’s Deputy Chief nest. Of course, the real way to prevent the spike would be to get rid of September, with all the stresses it placed on families after the casual, relaxed days of summer. He and Sharon had only two children, of very disparate ages, and yet they felt the stress of finding new schools, resuming full-time work hours, and juggling after-school activities.

To Green’s astonishment, Tony was going to kindergarten, and Hannah, true to her word, was trying out full-time Grade Twelve in the regular neighbourhood high school. For the occasion, she was letting her hair grow out, transforming the orange-tipped spikes into softer waves. She’d cut back on the black eye-liner and heroin-addict make-up, allowing her freckles and innocent hazel eyes to shine through. For the first time, Green saw not only his mother but himself in her face.

Naturally, the transformation required a new wardrobe. Hannah was a social animal astute enough to recognize that black rags and metallic studs would not earn her acceptance with the earnest children of the organic-food, eco-conscious set in their neighbourhood. Tony too needed brand new clothes, since last winter’s wardrobe was now several inches too short. The strain on their family budget and their time was enormous.

In fact it was Green’s turn to pick up Tony from the sitter and take him to The Bay for a fashion outing that Sharon had dubbed a father-son bonding experience, no doubt with tongue firmly in cheek. Green’s fashion sense did not extend beyond matching his cleanest pants to his favourite T-shirt, and Tony’s two-minute attention span, together with his determination to do as he pleased, made any excursion a test of endurance and willpower.

Sometimes domestic assault was a simple matter of tipping the balance too far.

Nonetheless, Green had managed to outline a five-point action plan for Devine that involved changes to police response at several levels, from first responding through laying of charges, and he’d thrown in enough buzz words— community partnerships, alternative dispute resolution, strategic intervention—that Devine would be salivating. He was just locking up his desk when he heard the elevator open and saw Brian Sullivan stride out, the tell-tale hint of high blood pressure on his dusky face. Sullivan spotted him and veered over, his colour deepening further. Green wondered if Levesque had complained again. He decided on a preemptive strike.

“You’re here late! The autopsy done?”

Sullivan flopped in the guest chair with a groan. “Just came from there.”

“And?”

“The man was healthy for his age. Some arthritis in his left hip which might have slowed him down a bit, but otherwise strong and fit.”

“Explains the cane. So what was the cause of death?”

“Blunt force trauma to the head. Repeated blunt force trauma, a dozen blows in total as near as MacPhail can tell. Fractured his skull, his jaw, some ribs and his collarbone.”

“Same instrument or several?”

“That’s hard to tell from the hamburger that was left. MacPhail’s taken lots of photos, so he’ll take a closer look.”

Green winced at the image. “Any specs on the type of instrument?”

“Again, he has to examine his tissue samples, but there’s nothing obvious to the naked eye. Something cylindrical and about five centimetres thick—about the size and shape of a baseball bat.”

“Not something that’s readily at hand on Rideau Street unless you brought it along.” Green mulled it over. Drug dealers and other punks normally didn’t carry baseball bats or obvious weapons that might draw attention to themselves. They preferred knives and guns. More deadly and easily slipped into the belt out of sight.

Sullivan’s scowl was easing, and his dusky colour was fading, as if he’d forgotten to be annoyed. “It may make it easier to find witnesses. Somebody walking along with a baseball bat would stand out.”

“I don’t remember any of those kids on the tape carrying baseball bats.”

“But we couldn’t see them all clearly. Sergeant Levesque is going to break the tape into stills, see if we can see anything.”

Green visualized the sequence of the assault. Rosenthal had tried to fend off his attacker with his cane before the killer got a good swing in. The earlier blows were likely less forceful, the latter ones would have produced the carnage.

“It would take a strong person to hit hard enough to break his skull like that,” he said.

“Strong or enraged.” Sullivan paused. “Some of the blows were post-mortem. The one that likely killed him was to the base of his neck, delivered when he was already lying down. Snapped his neck.”

Green tasted bile. “Coward. Attacking an old man in the first place, then hitting him when he’s down. This wasn’t a simple mugging, Brian. This was an assassination.”

Sullivan ran his broad hand through his bristly hair, frowning dubiously.“Well, it might have started as a mugging, but when Rosenthal resisted, the killer lost it. Maybe Rosenthal got a good hit in, and the attacker saw red.”

Green was silent. He knew Sullivan was right. They’d both seen enough bloody destruction to appreciate the power of flash rage. But to keep hitting once the old man was already down, already dead, suggested a dangerously unstable man. Green finally broke into their grim thoughts. “What’s his calculation on time of death?”

“More or less what we figured. Sometime between midnight and four a.m. Sunday morning.”

“Anything else of note?”

“We got the dental records, and we’ve couriered everything over to the forensic odontologist. Probably have a confirmed ID by Wednesday. MacPhail says Rosenthal had an iron constitution and kept himself well. Even got regular pedicures. Heart, liver and arteries all in excellent shape, would have lived another ten years. Even had all his own teeth. ‘A lifetime of clean living, the silly bugger’ is what the old Scot announced when he was finished.”

Both men laughed, grateful for the lighter mood. MacPhail would see that as a lifetime of wasted opportunities. But in Green’s mind, it all fit with the image that was beginning to form, of a thoughtful, philosophical man who had few vices and took meticulous care of himself.

None of which explained what he was doing walking along Rideau Street during the most dangerous small hours of the night.