Death's Shadow (17 page)

Back in Hamilton Darren was again connected with his brother, and the huge family dinner gatherings at the Rozendal house that Art was famous for organizing. Art had extended family spread around southern Ontario, and of course there was his mom, and sisters Debbie and Sandi. His dad, Neil, had now settled up in Ironbridge in northern Ontario with his second wife, Esther, and Art often drove the boys up to visit.

At home for Thanksgiving, Art set tables together stretching the length of the living room and dining room, packing in 15, 20 people — family and friends, aunts, cousins. Art stood, formally thanking everyone for coming, said a prayer. He often cooked the food, too, famous for his double chocolate cheesecake, or his marinated barbecued steaks — both recipes he gleefully refused to share.

Christmas was legendary at the house. Art made a huge show of it. When Neil and Jordan were young, he would put a tiny pine cone in the Christmas tree holder, get them all around it and sang “O Christmas Tree.” Then the kids would go to school. When they came back, the full tree would be up.

“Look!” Art would exclaim. “The singing paid off!”

Art doted on his boys as they grew, always surprised them with unusual present wrappings he created himself, and built each of them their own custom-made theme beds. For Christmas 2004, Art bought Jordan a chopper-style bicycle that was only available in the U.S., and a computer for Neil. He unveiled the gifts Christmas morning in the garage, wrapped in unique boxes that he’d created.

For Valentine’s Day 2004, Art presented Brenda with a crown and dressed up in full knight’s regalia as Sir Arthur. “Dear Lady,” he wrote her. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am your knight for the day.” He wrote messages on white cards, each accompanied by a gift:

First, a fine love potion noted for its ability to start your day in the most delightful way, much as your smile does to mine. Second, a flower so fair but not as fair as thee. Third, treats for the taste buds that match your nature. Please note, they are also a bit nutty. Fourth, jewels to match the sparkle in your eyes. May you wear it always knowing you are my Queen. Fifth, words crafted by the greatest artisans in the land to woo you, it being said I sometimes don’t say it often enough. And lastly, my undying love and devotion. I hope to have you near me always!

Happy Valentines,

A

One night, remembering that Brenda had once said that just once she’d like to dance to music in the rain, Art put a speaker out on the porch, pulled her out into a rain shower on the driveway and danced with her.

“Art,” Bill Murray joked later, “you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Art laughed. He was just being himself; didn’t care how it looked to others. Perhaps he had instinctively gone the opposite of his old-school father, not just feeling love but openly expressing it.

And that went for his male friends, too. Art was a rugged-looking country boy, with thick mustache who stood five foot nine and weighed 200 pounds — although Bill swore he was six feet — a gear-head, hard hat-wearing fixer of heavy machinery, and yet he had the biggest and softest heart around. Among his friends he was known for The Hug. He would hug a buddy upon seeing him. It wasn’t gushy, or phony, just a sign of genuine affection. Other guys could feel that kind of emotion, but hadn’t the nerve to express it. Art put it out there, unafraid.

At work this ability allowed him to play the peacemaker on occasion. He needed his friends to get along. On the job at Stelco, if he ever saw a couple of the guys going at it, arguing, he would intervene. “C’mon, guys, we don’t need the fighting, we’re brothers,” he said.

Brenda and Art loved the Bruce Park neighbourhood where they lived. It was tight-knit; everyone knew everyone else. One of the places they had started to gather some evenings was a roadhouse a few blocks away. It wasn’t the fanciest place, just a wings and beer place in a strip mall, but the location was perfect and the food was good. They could walk there, with their sons, have a few beers, dance. Brenda would get a burger, Art hot wings. They knew everyone there.

On Friday, January 14, 2005, Art had just got off a night shift and returned home at 9:00 a.m. from Stelco. It was cause for a celebration of sorts, the end to a series working evenings. He needed a rest, but first he took Brenda to McMaster Hospital for a cardiac stress test. When they got back to the house in the afternoon, he had a nap. Bev, Brenda’s sister, called the house around noon, checking up on Brenda. Art answered. Bev had just got back the week before from England; she had a girlfriend over there whose husband passed away suddenly on Christmas Eve, and she had gone over for the funeral. Art was very close with Bev and always liked talking with her. He wanted to know all about her trip, and how her grieving friend was doing.

“What are you two doing tonight?” Bev asked.

“Might go out. Why don’t we get together tomorrow night?” Art said.

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“Talk to you later. Love you.”

Saturday afternoon Art drove his youngest son, Jordan, to work at McDonald’s. The plan was that Art, Brenda, and Neil would head out for dinner, and Jordan would join them after he got off work. At 6:30 p.m. the three of them left the house. It was a clear, cold night; the ground was snow-covered but the sidewalk bare. It took them maybe 10 minutes. They usually knew most everyone in the place. Tonight would be different. Their lives were about to intersect with a few young men they had never seen before. Art and his family walked in the door at O’Grady’s Roadhouse on Upper James Street.

Cruel Cowardice

Art and Brenda greeted staff they knew well, like Cheryl, a waitress, and the bartender Michelle. They sat with Neil at their usual table. Art wore blue jeans, belt, checked blue shirt tucked in, white Nike running shoes, and work socks. Brenda wore heels, white shirt, jeans; Neil, jeans and black T-shirt. Art and Neil ordered hot wings, as usual. Brenda got fried mozzarella sticks and a salad. Art ordered a pitcher of Canadian draught.

The place started getting busier. After eating, Brenda chatted with friends; Art and Neil played pool at the tables. Stripes and solids. Art didn’t go easy on his son, and Neil didn’t want him to; he wanted to see if he could beat his dad. Art was a good player, chided Neil about it. “Oh, come on Neil, you could have made that shot … let me show you how it’s done.”

Cheryl brought Art a bottle of Export, then a Labatt 50.

There were two men playing at a table next to theirs. They had never seen them before. In the close quarters of the pool table area, the four of them on occasion took turns taking shots so as not to get in the way of the other, avoid accidentally poking one another with a pool cue. Etiquette. The two young men were Kyro Sparks and Cory McLeod.

Cory and Kyro finished their game, sat back at their own table, where they had ordered two pounds of wings and a pitcher of beer. The two of them kept jawing at each other, arguing. Nagging each other about their situations: the fact that Kyro couldn’t find work in Hamilton and that Cory was on the run for an assault charge in Kitchener; the fact that neither was making any money so were staying at Katrina and Sherri’s apartment around the corner. Both guys were stretched, throwing around cash they didn’t have.

Brenda hit the dance floor with a girlfriend, just after 10:00 p.m. “Me and Bobby McGee” had just started playing. Brenda loved that song. Art was a good dancer and enjoyed it, but this time he walked past Brenda, did a mock jig with her, and then begged off. He wasn’t up for more. He was tired, from work, and now the food, drinks.

A friend ordered another pitcher for Art and Brenda, which they had yet to start. Art was weary but in a great mood. Up at the bar, he chatted with a buddy named Randy, and Cheryl. Meanwhile, Neil said goodbye to his mom on the dance floor. He was heading home to meet Jordan and bring him back to O’Grady’s. He stopped at the bar. Art was doing a shot of Forty Creek Whisky, his favourite.

“Going to get Jordan,” Neil said. And he was out the door.

Brenda was still dancing; Art deciding that now — not earlier, and not later, but now — was the time to go to use the bathroom. He walked from the bar.

Cory was still going at it with Kyro, arguing, needling. Kyro was getting hot. Who was going to start making some cash? “How long can we expect the chicks to fucking put up with us?” Cory said. Tempers were rising. Cory was a hustler, always had been; talking is what he did. Kyro wasn’t like that. He was angry.

In seconds Art reached the back of the bar, perhaps walking past Cory and Kyro’s table, opened the door that separated the bar and dance floor area from a short, narrow back hallway. The door closed, he opened the bathroom door on his left, and entered.

Kyro had had enough of Cory. He got up from their table, walked to the back. There was just one urinal in the bathroom. Art was there using it. Kyro entered the small bathroom and stood behind Art. They were together.

Kyro told Art to hurry up, said he needed to use the urinal. Art turned, but there was barely space to maneuver. Genial as always, and having had several drinks, Art put his hand on Kyro’s shoulder, and suggested Kyro and Cory stop the fighting in the bar. Then he turned to open the door to leave.

What was it? The hand on the shoulder, getting into Kyro’s space? Was it possible that Art, using his vernacular from work when he broke up an argument, called him “brother”? What was it that lit the short fuse inside Kyro Sparks that at once set off all the cruelty, or self-hatred, or insecurity, or whatever diseased sense of himself as one badass son of a bitch that dwelled inside?

Kyro was on Art as he exited, grabbing hold of him in the narrow hallway. The door to the bar area was still shut. It was cramped; there was nowhere for Art to go. Either Kyro had to stop himself from what he had set in motion, or Art had to fight his way out.

“I’m not looking for any trouble,” Art said.

Now Cory McLeod opened the door to the hallway, coming back to see what was taking Kyro so long. He saw some guy facing off with Kyro. That was what was happening, right? This guy was facing off against him? Cory knew that look in Kyro’s face: he was hot. Cory just knew. It was on. You attacked one of them; you attacked them both. It was a rule. Anger popped inside Cory like a balloon bursting, then, unthinking, he rushed forward, punching, his vilest instincts exploding. Kyro was hitting Art, too; both were feeding off each other, raging, Art tried to get away, battle back, but there was nowhere to go. His hand grabbed the chain around Cory’s neck, ripping it off. Art fell. He was down on the carpeted floor now — unable to stand up with the drinks, the fatigue, the two frenzied young men beating on him, unleashing a cruel cowardice that Art would never imagine could exist in a person. The fists. The boots. The shoes. Over and over, kicking and stomping. It was sickening. And over.

The door to the back hallway opened. It was a customer coming back from the bar. He saw a man slumped on the floor, on his knees, buttocks in the air, face on the floor, and the side of his head leaning against the wall. He saw two men over Art — and a third young man, holding open a door leading to a back alley. He saw one of the two men kick Art.

“Could you not do that, not kick him again?” the customer asked.

“Do you want some of this?” the man with metallic wire in his mouth asked.

“No.”

The man kicked Art again, in the head, then they all moved toward the customer, and the door — the two men by the body, and the third who had held the back door. Kyro Sparks pushed the customer aside, and they were gone, out through the bar, the front door, walking, not running. They looked directly at the waitress, Cheryl, as they left. A couple of customers ran out the front door, saw the three of them starting to run along Upper James Street and around a corner. Another customer ran up to the bar.

“Art’s being kicked by three guys,” he said. Cheryl ran to the back hallway.

“Art!” she screamed.

He did not respond. She wiped blood off his face. Art was breathing raspy, slow breaths. She felt his pulse. A faint one. Michelle, the bartender, called 911. It was 10:32 p.m.

“We need an ambulance to 592 Upper James Street in Hamilton. He’s in the back hallway. We need an ambulance very quick.”

She hung up. The 911 dispatch called the bar back.

“Are there any weapons involved?” dispatch asked.

“No. It was three black guys; they just left our bar. He’s bleeding from the eyes — those three black guys beat the fuck out of him.”

Michelle hurried toward Brenda on the dance floor. Brenda stopped dancing, moved to meet her; she could tell something was wrong.

“Art’s been beat up. He’s in the hallway. The ambulance is on the way.”

Brenda ran to the back. Expected to find him there holding a bloody nose or sporting a black eye. She was not prepared to see him slumped on the floor.

“Art! Art!” She grabbed him, shouting his name, slapping the ground to get a reaction like she was taught when she updated her St. John Ambulance CPR training. She put her hand under his body, starting at the head, working down, looking for blood.

That’s when uniform police officer Ian Gouthro appeared and helped her perform CPR. At 10:41 p.m. the paramedics came in the back door. More police arrived on the scene. Brenda was losing it; she was terrified. One of the officers physically lifted her away from Art to give the paramedics room, carrying her into the bar area. The music had stopped, the lights were on. Everyone was wondering what had happened. Art? In a fight? Brenda was numb. And angry. And helpless. What could she do?

She stood on a chair, shouting now. “If anyone finds these guys out there, bring them to my garage. I want a crack at them before the police.”

Struggling to see what was happening, she noticed the defibrillator in the hallway near Art. But the paramedics were not using it. They were not using it to try to jump-start his heart, get him breathing. She knew that meant the worst. The boys. She had to get in touch with their sons. Neil and Jordan were a few blocks away at the house, getting ready to join their mom and dad at O’Grady’s.

The phone rang. Bev picked up. She could tell that Brenda was calling from her cell. Unusual for her to do that, especially late in the evening like that. Bev didn’t know where Brenda was; she did know Art and Brenda had gone out for dinner that night.

“Can you do something for me?” Brenda asked.

“What? What’s the matter?” Bev said.

“Art’s been beaten up.”

“What?”

“Art’s been beaten up and he’s not breathing.”

“So what the hell are you doing? Get him to the hospital!”

Brenda said that Art had been taken to the hospital. She needed Bev to go and bring the boys down to Hamilton General. Bev got off the phone and told her husband, Fred.

“Art? It can’t be Art,” he said. “Brenda must be mistaken. He must just be unconscious.”

“Something is really wrong. This is bad.”

A police cruiser drove Brenda from O’Grady’s to the hospital. Aunt Bev and Uncle Fred arrived at the Rozendal’s house just before 11:00 p.m. Jordan had just finished showering, getting ready to head out to the roadhouse. Neil was watching TV, waiting for his brother. Bev told them their dad was hurt, and at the hospital. They had to get down there and meet their mom.

Art had taught Neil to look for a smile or a laugh in any situation. In recent years they had lost several members of the extended family, most elderly, and Art always talked of the good times, made them laugh to help deal with it. At that moment Neil didn’t want to believe the worst.

“What,” Neil cracked, “did he trip and hit his head on the pool table or something?”

Bev said little. They rode to the hospital in silence. Fred parked, Bev hurried to the ER. She wanted to just make eye contact first. That’s all she needed; she and Brenda were so close, the eyes would tell her all she needed to know. Bev spotted her. Brenda shook her head. Bev knew.

Paramedics had intubated Art at the bar, put a tube down his throat to assist breathing, given him epinephrine and atropine to try and restart the heart. It was no use. Art died at O’Grady’s, before he arrived at the hospital, but paramedics do not officially declare death in the field. That would be up to the ER doctor.

At the General, Dr. John Opie was told by paramedics that Art had been VSA — vital signs absent — for about 40 minutes. His heart was asystole — no electric activity. Dr. Opie examined Art’s pupils, felt his femoral artery in the groin for signs of a pulse. Nothing. He determined that resuscitation efforts would be futile. Art was pronounced dead at 11:14 p.m.

Brenda was not permitted to see Art’s body, not when a homicide investigation surrounding his death had just begun. The body was evidence. The family gathered in the quiet room in the emergency department. How could Brenda tell Neil and Jordan? She wanted to start by telling them how proud Art was of them, use past-tense words, cushion the news in any way she could.

“You know, your dad loved you very much,” Brenda began.

Before Brenda finished breaking the news, Neil asked what had happened to his dad.

An ER staffer in the room turned and said, “He’s dead.”

At that moment Jordan opened the door and bolted from the room and out of the ER, the others following him. He ran outside, down Barton Street, escaping, trying to run from the news. Someone chased him down. Neil stayed back, outside the hospital, sat on a cement wall, and wept.

Art’s mother, Frances, arrived at the hospital and so did Art’s sister, Debbie. A police officer took Brenda and Neil to Central Station to meet homicide Detective Mike Maloney. Bev and the others took a cab.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“The police station on King William,” Bev said. “And if any of your cabbies picked up anyone in the Upper James and Brucedale area tonight, the police would really like to know about it. Because my brother-in-law was beaten to death tonight.”

The cabbie dropped them off at the station and waived the fare. He sent flowers to the funeral. The card was simply signed, “The taxi cab driver.”

After several hours at Central Station, a police officer drove Brenda and Neil home, where they rejoined family members gathered at the house. At 6:00 a.m., the city dark and cold, Brenda, exhausted and wired, picked up the phone. She had calls to make.