Lethal Rage (11 page)

After getting their morning coffees — Sy considered coffee bought at the beginning of shift, regardless of the time, morning coffee — they cruised into Allan Gardens. The park was a city block square, sitting on the western edge of 51. It boasted beautiful flower beds circling a central domed greenhouse. Paved pathways, wide enough for service vehicles and scout cars, crisscrossed the park.

Sy crept the car along at walking speed and rolled to a stop in front of a crowded park bench. Sitting quietly on the bench, enjoying the shade from a towering oak, three grubby old men peered at the police car with dull eyes. Jack figured Sy meant to check them out and opened his door.

“Don't bother,” Sy said, never taking his eyes off the men. “This won't take long. Now listen, fellas,” he continued, his words for the men on the bench. “What have I told you before about drinking in my park?”

“No drinking in the park,” came the hesitant reply.

“That's right. So unless you want to lose your beers, go drink 'em in a laneway where people can't see you. I catch you drinking here again, you lose the beer. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” they mumbled in near unison. Murmuring “Thank you, officer,” and “Have a nice day, officer,” they shuffled off to the nearest laneway.

“You just send them on their way?”

“Sure. Why not? They're just a bunch of local boozehounds. All they've got in life is their buddies and drinking. They weren't causing any trouble, so why take away one of the few things they have in life?” Dropping the car into gear, Sy glanced at Jack. “Would you have given them tickets and confiscated the beer?”

Jack thought about it for a minute. “Don't know. I guess I'm just used to handing out tickets whenever I can to keep the sergeants off my back.”

“Trust me, Jack. You're gonna run into enough assholes down here just through answering radio calls to write as many tickets as you want. No need to fuck over the general public or poor old hounds like them.”

Sy drove to the centre of the park and backed up the concrete ramp in front of the greenhouse. He killed the engine and kicked open his door to let what little breeze there was flow through the front seat. Jack propped his door open as well and took in the surroundings as he sipped his coffee.

The ramp was wide enough for three cars abreast and lined with concrete planters. The ramp gave them a clear view of the eastern side of the park. It was a busy place, with dogs being walked, people heading home from work and even the odd sunbather.

“This is my hangout. I like to have my morning coffee here and I drive through the park as many times as I can during the shift.”

“How come?” Jack asked, curious.

“The park is my special project. It used to be overrun with drunks and crackheads. It took us a while, but we finally cleaned it up and I intend to keep it that way. Just because you live in this hellhole doesn't mean you shouldn't have a nice place to walk your dog.”

They drank their coffee and the radio remained silent. Occasionally, someone passing near the car would wave to Sy and he would raise a hand in return. It was a peaceful and surprising start to the day — evening shift usually started with a backlog of calls the day shift couldn't get to — but Jack wasn't about to complain. The lack of radio calls was a welcome relief. And needed. The chest workout Sy had put him through had exhausted him.

Sy drained his coffee and dumped the empty cup behind the front seat. “Remind me later to throw that in the garbage. How'd you and Karen meet?”

“Where'd that question come from?”

“Humour me.”

“We were a set-up, actually. A friend of Karen's — they knew each other in school — is a cop at 32 and she introduced us. She's also the one who tells Karen all the horror stories about 51 and the —” Jack paused, making sure he got the quotation right “— ‘knuckle-dragging, heavy-handed, cheating bastards that aren't in jail because they have a badge.' I think that's how she put it.”

“Let me guess. Karen's friend was married to a 51 copper?”

Jack laughed. “You'd think so, but not that I'm aware of. I don't think she's ever been south of Lawrence Avenue, let alone in 51.”

“Unfortunately, a lot of people think that way about us. They just don't know, or don't want to know, about the shit we deal with. Remember when we got called to Street City a few weeks ago? It's a perfect example. One guy throws bleach in another guy's eyes, almost blinds him, over an argument about the TV and then when we go to arrest him he tries to stab me. That's shit the general public doesn't deal with. They never even hear about it. Yet they judge us.”

Jack finished his coffee and Sy started up the car. “By the way, did you ever tell Karen how you got that cut?”

“Why?” Jack asked as they left the park and pulled out onto Gerrard Street. “Why shouldn't I protect Karen from the real 51?”

“Because it'll fuck you in the end.” Sy sounded serious. “Dealing with criminals every day, the shit of humanity, can get to you after a while. It can change you. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. Karen has to understand what you're experiencing, otherwise all she'll know is that you're changing and she won't know why.”

Jack nodded in agreement. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Think about it,” Sy went on. “Let's say you've had a really bad day. A really messy suicide, or maybe you arrested a guy who beat the snot out of his wife and kids, or some nut goes for your gun and you end up fighting for your life. How is she going to help you when you get home if she doesn't know what your job is like?” Sy held up a hand to forestall Jack's comments. “Worst-case scenario: you shoot someone. Perfectly justified, but now you have to handle the fact that you just killed someone. That's something no civilian ever thinks about: how being forced to shoot someone affects the cop. Not to mention that you're being investigated by the SIU, a bunch of incompetent civilian investigators whose mandate is to charge cops even if the evidence proves the cops are innocent.”

“I never thought about that,” Jack admitted quietly.

“So take it from me, someone who's on marriage number three. She has to hear about it. She may not want to, but if she's going to be a copper's wife, she needs to know.”

“Thanks, Sy. I really appreciate it.” They drove in silence; then Jack asked, “You really think the SIU is incompetent?”

“I imagine some of them are okay.” Sy braked for an Asian family crossing Gerrard Street at Sackville. The parents pointedly ignored the police car, but the two little kids waved. Sy and Jack waved back. Cruising along Gerrard, Sy carried on. “Don't get me wrong. I've got no problem with a civilian body checking up on us. But a lot of them don't have a policing background, so how can they understand what we do? That'd be like putting you and me on a hospital's board and telling doctors how to do their job.”

“You're just full of good points today.”

“Hey, it's your fault,” Sy accused, sounding slightly embarrassed. “You asked about the SIU. But I'm finished now. So endeth the lesson for today, grasshopper.”

“5103 in 6's area. 230 Sherbourne. See the doctor there. He has a male who needs to go to the hospital on a Form One.”

“Well, Jack, you're about to find out how bad 51 can be.”

“Why? It a rough place?”

“Oh, not rough. Just . . . smelly.” The wicked grin Sy shot his way should have warned Jack, but then maybe nothing could have prepared him for the call.

Number 230 Sherbourne was an old Victorian-style building that had long ago been converted into a rooming house. The once grand, elegant building was now just another shithole in a row of shitholes. An ambulance was parked out front and Sy pulled in behind it, leaving enough room between the vehicles to manoeuver a stretcher.

Sherbourne Street and Dundas Street East, the intersection the
Toronto Star
had labelled “Crack Central,” was a hodgepodge of buildings. The church on the southeast corner hosted a drop-in centre for the homeless, addicts and the rest of society's discarded and rejected people. Across the street from the church was the building in front of which Jack had spotted the Black dealer, the arrest that had led to the search warrant.

Diagonally across from the church was a two-storey commercial building that changed businesses as frequently as crack whores tended to bathe. Monthly. There was a fifties-style diner on the ground floor, where the food was surprisingly good, considering the area. Jack and Sy had eaten there a few times.

Then there was a tiny plaza with a 7-Eleven on the last corner and one building south of it was 230 Sherbourne.

Jack got out of the car and surveyed the area, noting who was doing what on the sidewalks. The heat kept pedestrian activity to a minimum, but some people, looking like wilted plants, sat out on front steps and porches, preferring the oppressive open air to their stagnant apartments.

“Hey, Sy. Check out the guy across the street.”

Sy glanced at a figure huddled on the church steps. “What about him?”

“A little warm for a sweatshirt and ball cap, isn't it?”

“Yup, but once you get on that crack diet, it burns the fat right off of you. Throw in some malnourishment and that guy's probably lucky he hasn't frozen to death.” Sy headed up the steps to the front door of 230. “If he's still there when we're finished with this call, we'll check him out. Now, let's go see what this doctor has for us.”

Jack cast a final eye at the man across the street, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, rocking in a jerky motion. Shadows hid his face and the dark skin of his hands gave no clue to his age. Jack shook his head. On a day when most people would be willing to barter with the devil for air conditioning, that poor bastard was freezing even with a sweatshirt and ball cap. Crack was a wonderful thing. Jack joined Sy at the double doors on the front of the old Victorian building.

When they stepped inside, the stench slapped Jack in the face. His eyes started to water and he staggered. Then his hands flew to cover his mouth and nose. “What the hell is that smell?”

Sy, grinning, looked as if he was still breathing fresh air. “Years of unwashed bodies and no housecleaning.” He clapped Jack on the back. “Don't worry. A few years down here and your sense of smell will be burnt out of you permanently. Let's go find the ambulance.”

The front hall was an immense, two-storey affair with a grand staircase leading up. Jack stopped, mesmerized. “My God, Sy. Look at this place.”

The hardwood floors were warped and hadn't felt a touch of care in decades. The intricate detailing on the banisters, trim and moulding was all but lost beneath countless layers of cheap paint. Huge rooms, built to entertain dozens of guests, had been portioned off with slapped-together two-by-fours and drywall into cheap, one-room apartments.

“I know,” Sy said wistfully. “It breaks my heart every time I come in here.”

A narrow hall on either side of the staircase led deeper into the house and Sy headed down the left side. Jack followed, careful not to let his bare forearms touch the walls. He couldn't tell what colour they had been painted years ago, but now they were a brownish grey shade he had never seen before. It matched the stench perfectly. He slipped on his Kevlar-lined leather gloves.

Two paramedics and an out-of-place business-suit type — he had to be the doctor — were standing outside the last room down the hall. Jack figured his awareness of the stench should be waning, but the reek grew stronger the deeper into the house they went. By the time he and Sy joined the medics, Jack was ready to gag. At least one of the paramedics was looking as queasy as Jack felt.
What on earth could smell that horrible?

“Afternoon, everyone. Whatever we've got, let's get it done quick before we have to burn our uniforms to get rid of the stink.” It was the first concession Sy had made to the smell.

The queasy medic nodded enthusiastically and motioned to the suit.

“I'm Dr. Watson. I came by today to check on Mr. Hirsch. His caseworker advised me he has a serious foot problem that needs to be looked at.”

Jack thought his voice suggested it was a very serious problem.

“I didn't think doctors did house calls anymore.”

If the doctor took offence to Sy's comment, it didn't show. “I usually don't, but Mr. Hirsch is a special case. He's a bit of a shut-in. In fact, his worker can't remember the last time he left his room.”

“And you've issued a Form One?”

“I have.” Watson produced the mental-health form from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sy. “Mr. Hirsch is in no condition to care for himself, as you shall see.” He gestured to the closed door and stepped back. Well back.

Sy exchanged a puzzled glance with Jack. Obviously, the doctor wasn't concerned about Hirsch being a direct danger to himself or anyone else. Otherwise, he'd have opened the door to keep an eye on his client or waited outside for a police escort.

“What's his first name?” Sy borrowed a pair of latex gloves from the medics.

“You may want to put these on, too,” the medic said to Jack, handing him a pair. “Leather just absorbs fluids.”

“I'm not liking where this is going,” Jack muttered as he changed gloves.

“Bernard. His name's Bernard,” the doctor called from down the hall.

“Hold your breath,” the medic cautioned and toed open the door.

It was probably his imagination, but Jack would later swear he had
seen
the smell waft out of the room like a noxious fog bank. Even Sy recoiled. Jack had to fight to keep from vomiting. His eyes stung, then burned.

Can a smell physically touch you? Oh, God, I'm breathing it in!

“Ber — oh, fuck, that's disgusting — Bernard?” Sy managed to say.