Fifth Son (15 page)

“Gaetan Larocque, from Organized Fraud. Good man.”

Green felt a new wave of regret. Larocque was a good enough investigator, seasoned and hard-working. But Fraud was a far cry from Major Crimes, and as far as Green knew, he hadn't done a homicide investigation in years. But that wasn't the worst of it. If Gaetan Larocque got his promotion to Staff Sergeant, that meant Brian Sullivan had been passed over yet again, by a man five years his junior.

Isabelle Boisvert was heading down County Road 2, still a good half kilometre from her turn-off, when she spotted something moving in her front yard. At first she thought Jacques had decided to take another day off from the office, but as she drew nearer, the sunlight flashed off a metal object far larger than the Sunbird. It was a dump truck.

She shoved her foot harder on the accelerator and felt the minivan sputter in response. She took the turn at top speed and slewed the minivan down the lane, bumping over ruts and showering gravel in her wake. She reached the front yard just in time to see the truck dump a massive load of crushed stone onto the ground. She leaped out of the minivan and stormed towards the truck, her shouts futile over the rattle of the stones.

The company name Scott Construction was stencilled on the cab door in faded red. A burly man with a John Deere cap, wrap-around sunglasses and tattooed biceps the size of Douglas firs, was perched inside, peering over his shoulder at the gravel in the back. Behind him, where the tangle of shrubs had been, was a gaping hole bordered by a square of rough cut pine planks. It was into this enclosure that the truck was dumping the gravel, releasing clouds of gritty dust.

Isabelle hammered on the driver's window. He turned to her, surprise showing on his face through the dusty glass. In the next instant, he switched off the hydraulic lift and rolled down his window.

He touched his cap. “Mrs. Boisvert?”

“Yes. Just what the hell do you think you're doing?”

He jerked a massive thumb towards the pit. “Phil Scott. I spoke with your husband last night, eh?”

“But you weren't supposed to do this till next week. Not today!”

“I know, but we had a look at it this morning. It's not a big job, and I had a bit of time to spare. Sandy Fitzpatrick said it would be okay to go ahead.”

“This was Sandy's idea?”

“Well, no. But we had a look at it, eh, and we just thought... I mean, Sandy said you shouldn't have to be out here yourself digging it up with your bare hands.”

Isabelle scanned the yard in dismay. Except for a few stray canes of raspberry still strewn on the ground, there was no sign that the thicket had ever been there. Nor the axe and the cow bone. She felt her autonomy being bulldozed by a pair of Neanderthal country men.

“But what happened to all the wood?” she blustered. “I was going to have a bonfire.”

“Oh, we took that this morning. Brought my little cat in and loaded the truck up. Raspberry canes and that don't make a good fire anyway, eh?”

He was leaning out the window, his tone the essence of courtesy but his eyes unreadable behind sunglasses. He made it sound as if their actions had been completely sensible—just country folk offering a helping hand—and indeed Jacques had arranged the job the night before. Damn him for not informing Phil Scott of the change in plans.

“Well, Phil, I appreciate you trying to help, but we're not sure about the garage yet. I'm kind of thinking of a pool here.”

Scott brightened. No doubt seeing the dollar signs. “A swimming pool?”

“No, just a little fish pond.”

Scott leaned his chin on his tattooed forearms and peered solemnly around the yard. “Bad place for a fish pond. Wind likely whips through here pretty strong, straight across them fields. You'd be better to put the pond in the lee of the house. Put a patio and all in there too. That's where the Pettigrews used to have their firepit and picnic table.”

Isabelle looked at the pile of gravel sitting in the centre of the yard. He was right, damn him. In her frustration, she had wanted to build a place of beauty where the ugly thicket had been, but it made much more sense to integrate the pool into a garden at the side of the house. Besides, considering all the spooky remnants of the past that she had unearthed in that spot, it was comforting to think that the whole mess was well buried beneath a foot of stones.

“I'll help you dig your pond over there next week if you like,” Phil offered. “No extra charge than what was agreed last night. It'll be nice to see this old place come to life again.”

T
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flat monotony of farm fields whipped by as Sullivan drove down Highway 416 towards Brockville. His hand was steady on the wheel, and his gaze was fixed straight ahead, inscrutable behind his mirrored sunglasses. He knew Sue Peters was probably bursting with questions, but she betrayed no hint as she fiddled with the car radio for the sixth time. He let her fiddle. It was going to be a long drive, an hour each way even if he broke the speed limit, and he had no wish to fill it with idle chit-chat or station gossip he'd heard a hundred times. He had more important things to occupy his mind. A good buddy in the Deputy Chief 's office had tipped him off on the promotions list last night, and this morning Sullivan was nursing the first hangover he'd had in years. He had forced himself past the rage stage now, past the “fuck them I quit” stage, past the hurt stage and the betrayed stage. He was now taking a cold, hard look at his future. He knew he'd come to a fork in the road, and like it or not—mostly not—he had a choice to make.

That's what he really wanted to talk about—this endless loop of doubt and discontent that ran through his thoughts— but there was no one to talk it over with. Not Green, who'd tell him that promotions sucked and he should stay in Major Crimes anyway. Certainly not this poised and assertive young woman beside him who, if she played her cards right, would reach Staff Sergeant before he did. She probably thought it mattered that they go down to Brockville, do a good job, unmask this historic murder, and tie the two deaths all up in a neat bow for the Crown.

But it didn't matter a flying fuck. Because even if there had been a murder twenty years ago—a big if—the alleged murderer was now dead, the mother was dead, the father was a vegetable, the only other remaining son was a useless drunk, and Robbie Pettigrew needed to know this secret like he needed his guts reamed out. What good was going to come of it, compared to the harm? Sullivan knew villages like Ashford Landing. A horrible secret like this would reverberate forever, condemned from the pulpit and whispered in the grocery aisles for years to come.

He steered the car onto the 401 on-ramp and joined the torrent of transport trucks and speed demons racing along the Montreal-Toronto corridor. Not trusting his booze-sodden reflexes, he maintained a steady one hundred and ten kilometres an hour, as if the appearance of patience and calm could make him feel that way.

The Brockville police station was a squat, square building just off the 401 on their way into town. After a brief courtesy call and a chat with the officer who'd taken Lawrence's photo to the group home, Sullivan and Peters headed south through the historic core of the town, which had stood guard on the St. Lawrence River opposite New York State for over two centuries. Picking up the original river road, they headed east towards the hospital.

As they turned onto the grounds of St. Lawrence Psychiatric Hospital, Sullivan did a double-take. He had expected an insane asylum built over a century ago to look more like the Bastille than an exclusive country resort, and was surprised to find a graceful, rambling, red brick castle set back amid rolling lawns and trees overlooking the river. Once he and Peters entered the front door, however, the worn tiles and chipped paint told a more accurate tale. Like many historic hospitals, it had been slated for closure by the belt-tightening Ontario Conservatives after gradually losing its clientele to better drug treatments and outpatient clinics. But people still got sick, and like most cops, Sullivan was all too familiar with what happens when a philosophical ideal, however noble, gets translated into real life. Of necessity, St. Lawrence Psychiatric continued to limp along, underfunded and shrunken in size, serving the revolving parade of chronically ill who fell through the gaping cracks in the supports.

Green had paved the way, and less than five minutes after Sullivan identified himself at reception, he and Peters were ushered into the office of the Chief of Psychiatry, a man who looked like he'd risen from a slab at the morgue. Dr. Roddingham peered down his beaked nose at the signed release form from Robbie, clucked his tongue and shook his head.

“You have to understand, Sergeant, I get several requests a month from investigators and lawyers wanting access to confidential files on the flimsiest of evidence. Psychiatric patients are the first to be suspected if anything happens in the community, and their rights fly out the window. So I insist on very strict protocols to safeguard our patients' rights. I need a death certificate and a subpoena, at the very least a legal document attesting that this Robert Pettigrew is the official next of kin.”

Sullivan sighed. Green and his goddamn wild goose chases. “We don't suspect Lawrence of doing anything, and we're not looking for evidence to be used in court. We believe the man is deceased, and we're looking for information on his recent activities and his state of mind when you last examined him.” Sullivan paused before trying to slide the next sentence by unnoticed. “As well as for information about the circumstances of his original admission.”

Dr. Roddingham proved more alive that he looked. His cadaverous eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Why indeed, thought Sullivan wearily through the jackhammers in his head. He fished for straws. “Because that may shed light on the reason for his return, and who he may have visited on his return.”

Roddingham's eyes narrowed further. “You think he may have been murdered?”

“No, sir,” Sullivan countered quickly, thinking just what he needed—another overactive imagination. “We're just questioning whether he was frightened or upset by someone. I understand he hadn't seen his family in twenty years.”

Roddingham seemed to be weighing his position, no doubt sorting through the maze of regulations governing disclosure. He tapped his lips absently as if to stop himself saying anything.

“As to the former request, we will need his treating psychiatrist to answer that. As to the latter, we will need his old charts. I will not permit you to inspect them, but I will see if there is any useful information I can share.” He reached for the phone and issued two terse orders to his secretary. He winced, apparently at one of her answers, and hung up. “Dr. Assad will be with us shortly from another wing. The chart will take a few minutes.”

Dr. Assad must have broken the record for the hundred yard dash, Sullivan reflected, for his footsteps could be heard clattering down the hall overhead, and barely a minute later he burst through the door, dark-eyed, dishevelled and struggling for breath. He was a small man with a pencil mustache and goatee that made him look like a rat. As he listened to Roddingham's request, his nose twitched as if testing the air for danger. He made all the right noises when he heard about Lawrence's death, but protested at the suggestion of suicide.

“There was nothing in his behaviour to indicate that!” he exclaimed. “He's only been in my care for four years since he moved to the group home, but I read his previous psychiatrist's discharge note carefully. Last spring, when we moved him to independent living, he was as good as he was going to get after almost twenty years of institutional care. Mentally he was a child, but then we'd never let him grow up. Worse, we regressed him—”

“Dr. Assad.” Dr. Roddingham's voice, though deceptively quiet, cut like a whip. “The police merely want to know if, in your professional opinion, he might have been suicidal.”

“I have no way of knowing, I haven't seen him since June. I'd have to examine him, which of course is not possible now.”

“June!” Peters exclaimed before Sullivan could shut her up. He decided to let the challenge lie.

Assad pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I have three hundred outpatients on my caseload, madame. The treatment for his illness is medication, and my job is to ensure the drug and dosage are optimal. Medically his condition was stable; all that was needed was routine monitoring and lab work.”

Sullivan reasserted control. “What about his life, his friends? What was he doing with his time?”

“We discussed symptoms and side effects, not living habits. In any case, he'd be more likely to confide that sort of thing in the group home workers who monitored his progress.”

The door opened to admit Roddingham's secretary, carrying several thick, dog-eared charts which she plunked on Roddingham's desk. With visible relief, Assad seized the most recent and began to leaf through it. Buttressed by his paperwork, his voice took on a new confidence.

“My latest chart note is dated June 19—oriented in all three spheres, no hallucinations or disorganized speech. Not very talkative, flat affect. Certainly no signs of trouble there. I recommended he continue his olanzapine.”

“What do you mean by flat affect?” Sullivan asked.

Roddingham took over as if the role of professor was second nature to him. “Affect is visible emotion. Schizophrenic patients, especially in the chronic phase of their illness, often have a flatness to them rather suggestive of robots. They lack spark and spontaneity.”

Must be contagious, Sullivan thought wryly. “So you're saying he was neither happy nor sad.”

“Not overtly. Of course—” Roddingham paused and blinked his reptilian eyes slowly. “There's no telling how he felt inside. He may have felt quite empty. That's not uncommon either.”