Savage Rage (18 page)

His stomach heaved. He looked up, wanting to see anything except that . . . that thing that used to be a person's head. He fixated on a patch of bright red and green on the grimy bricks. The green was the man's toque, caught between the corner of the bumper and the brick wall. The red was his blood, sprayed when his head was popped like a ripe tomato. It looked as if someone had decorated the crown of a Christmas tree by taking a shotgun to the flesh-and-blood angel perched on top.

Manny came up behind Jack. “Hey, Jack. That guy was saying something about — oh.”

Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving the congealing blood as it dripped sluggishly from the cheery green toque.

“Yeah. Oh.”

“I heard you guys had a messy one this morning.”

Jack pushed away from the keyboard and arched his back, groaning in contentment. “Yeah, you could say that.”

The on-scene investigation had taken hours. Sergeant Rose had attended as the road supervisor; then the detectives had come, then the coroner, then finally, body removal. Store staff had been interviewed, statements taken. Jack and Manny finally went back to the station to do the paperwork in the tiny room ridiculously labelled the report room. It had space for three computers along one wall and, on the other walls, ranks of shelving holding outdated paper forms.

“What happened?” Jenny boosted herself onto the countertop next to Jack's computer. She waved her fingers at Manny and he smiled at her around his sandwich. Ever since his girlfriend had become a live-in girlfriend, she'd been making his lunches for him and, apparently, was rather hurt if he came back with any of them uneaten.

“Pretty stupid, actually.” Jack rotated his head, feeling the vertebrae in his neck crack pleasurably.

Jenny hopped off the counter to stand behind him. She slapped him lightly on the side of the head to get him to hold still, then began working her fingers into muscle at the base of his neck. Jack had taken off his jacket and vest before settling in at the computer, so she was able to really dig into the muscle. “Keep going.”

“As far as we can tell — ah, that feels good — our victim was cutting through the laneway — he lived in the converted lofts there — and stopped to tie his boot and while he was kneeling the truck backed into him.”

“He didn't hear it coming? Jeez, Jack, don't you ever stretch after your workouts?”

“No. I mean yes. Yes, I stretch. No, he didn't hear the truck.” He tapped his ear. “Had his headphones on and the tunes cranked. Stupid way to die.”

“I'll say.” Jenny dug her fingers in deeper, eliciting another groan from Jack. “Do you have to notify next of kin?”

Jack grunted no, too involved in the feel of her fingers to talk.

“Sergeant Rose did it for us,” Manny explained as he wiped the crumbs from his fingers and reached for a bag of grapes. He popped one into his mouth. “She said she wanted us to get started on the report as soon as possible.”

“Well, at least you didn't have to do that. I hate having to notify families about deaths. I'd rather clean up the body than talk to the family. What did it look like?” Nothing seemed to interest coppers like a really gross story. Except maybe for a gun call.

“It looked like. . . .” Jack plucked free one of Manny's grapes and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Like this.” Its innards spewed over his fingers as he squished it.

Jenny giggled. “That's gross.”

Manny had a different reaction. “Oh, dude.” He pushed the bag of grapes away, a queasy expression souring his face. “I'm never going to be able to eat another grape ever again.”

Jack and Jenny laughed, but their levity was cut short as Sergeant Rose stepped into the report room.

“You okay, Sarge? You look tired.”

Rose smiled at Jenny and it eased the hard-ass expression Sergeant Rose normally wore. But Jack agreed with Jenny. Rose did look wiped out. Telling parents their only son had his head popped like a grape between a truck and a wall would probably wear out even the most callous bastard.

“I fucking hate day shift,” she grumbled and with that the smile faded and her sergeant's mask slid back into place. “You're on lunch, right, Alton? Use my badge for cancelling your lunch and head out. The calls are starting to back up.”

“Sure thing, Sarge. See you guys later.” Jenny gave Jack a final pat on the shoulder before leaving.

“How much more do you have to do?”

Jack considered the screen in front of him and shrugged. “Not much. Fifteen, twenty minutes I guess.”

Rose nodded. “Good. Get it done as quick as you can. You're the only two-man car on the road today and a domestic just came in with your name on it.”

“Oh, joy.” Jack snuggled up to the keyboard again.

“What's wrong with Armsman?”

“Hm?” Jack looked at Manny. His partner was still staring at the bag of grapes like he expected them all to suddenly start exploding. “Nothing major, Sarge. His lunch just isn't agreeing with him.”

Jack lay in the dark, staring at the bedroom ceiling. By all accounts, he should be fast asleep; it had been a long and tiring day. An adrenalin rush thanks to Max the pit bull, then the industrial accident —
poor fucking bastard
— and, to finish off, a wonderfully unoriginal domestic in which the husband had beaten the living snot out of the wife. Jack had taken her statement while Manny had snapped photos of her and the trashed apartment. Only three calls, but they had filled the day. And then some.

Jack had called home from the station when overtime looked inevitable to tell Karen not to wait for him. She had dinner plans with her mother but had hoped to see him before heading out. Jack had, of course, been invited to join the ladies for dinner but had declined; day shift and evenings out really didn't mesh. As it turned out, he wouldn't have been able to make it anyway.

Not that missing dinner with his mother-in-law was all that distressing, although he had to admit Evelyn had certainly been treating him nicer this last month. Or was it longer than that? His occupation was her favourite topic of conversation; her husband liked to bash Jack any way he could. Jack tried to remember the last time Evelyn had gotten on his case about the job and couldn't. But it was definitely more than a month.

Wonder if she's up to something?

If a particularly nasty supervisor at work, Staff Greene for example, suddenly changed demeanour the way Evelyn had, Jack would expect a knife in the back. Could Evelyn have finally realized her daughter wasn't going to leave her cop? Had Evelyn decided to make the best of it?

Yeah, right. And Santa Claus is real.

Jack had crawled into bed before eight-thirty. He and Manny had agreed to forgo tomorrow's workout before shift, so he didn't have to get up until half past five. He had hoped to bag a good nine solid hours of sleep. And here it was almost ten and sleep was still as elusive as it had been an hour and a half ago.

The room lit up briefly as headlights swept across the front of the house before blinking out. Karen was home. He heard the engine cut and smiled as he heard her try to quietly push the Honda's door shut. He could picture her swearing under her breath as she shoved against the door; Karen didn't do quiet well. She was a slammer and stomper.

He listened to her moving around in the kitchen, the fridge opening and closing. Leftovers? Or had she brought him home something? Maybe dessert? Sundays were typically his cheat day, after all.

Jack followed her progress up the stairs by the faint creaking; he should tell her to walk on the outside of the steps if she wanted to be quiet. Then she stepped into the room. She must be feeling her way through the dark.

“It's okay, Kare. I'm awake.”

“I'm sorry, Jack. I tried to be quiet. Did I wake you?”

“Nope,” he said. “I just got to bed a few minutes ago.”

She clicked on the bathroom light, silhouetting herself in the doorway. “But you sounded so tired on the phone. I thought you'd be in bed as soon as you got home.”

“Got home around eight-thirty, had something to eat and watched some TV. If I'd known you were on your way, I'd've stayed up.” No sense letting her know he'd been lying here for more than an hour; she'd worry that he was having trouble sleeping again. She'd blame it on his return to 51 and he didn't need to provide her with any more ammunition for that argument.

“You didn't have to,” Karen called from the bathroom. “I'll be out in a minute.” The door clicked shut, muting the sound of running water.

A few minutes later she was sliding next to him, a T-shirt with dancing teddy bears on it covering her to mid-thigh. She lifted his left arm and snuggled in against his chest. “Bad day, hon?”

“Nope, just long.”

“That was terrible about the young man. Are you okay?”

He shifted his gaze from the ceiling to her. “Yeah, I'm okay. I mean, yeah, it was a pretty horrible sight, but —” He laughed, a brief, harsh exhale of breath that even to his ears sounded forced. “But I've seen worse.”

“How do you handle it? Seeing stuff like that all the time.”

“Well, I don't exactly see stuff like that every day,” he said carefully, weighing her question. Was she concerned? Or was this another assault on 51?

“I know,” she said quietly, hugging him tight. “People shouldn't have to see what you see. I don't know how you do it.”

“Well,” he mused, shrugging beneath her comfortable weight. “You get used to it, after a while.”

“But how can you get used to that?” Her breath tickled the hair on his chest.

He sought an answer that would explain it and finally opted for the words cops had been using since there were cops to say them. “You just do. That's all.” He stroked her hair, watching it gleam softly in the street light that stole past the curtains. “You have to, otherwise you can't do the job. I mean, after the accident, Manny and I handled a pretty nasty domestic where the husband laid one hell of a beating on his wife. I had to take her statement and if I let the sight of her get to me, then I wouldn't have been much use to her, would I?”

“I guess not.” Karen hugged him again and held him tight. “Did you catch the husband?” she whispered into the dark.

He nodded, a grim smile on his lips. “Yeah. We found him hiding in his mom's basement.”

“Did he fight with you?” She rose up on her arms as if suddenly afraid she was hurting him by lying against him.

He snorted contemptuously. “Nah. Like most wife beaters, he's a coward. When faced with someone their own size who'll fight back, they usually give up. Like I said, cowards. That's why they beat their wives. Or girlfriends. Or children.”

“You really like it down there, don't you?” Karen asked as she snuggled close.

Jack smiled again. It was still a grim smile but a satisfied smile. “I do. I know shit happens all over the city. But down there. . . .”

“You really feel like you're making a difference?” she suggested.

“Exactly.” He hugged her, kissing the top of her head. She shifted in the dark and her lips found his. “You know,” he whispered as his hand trailed down her back. “We're in bed together and one of us is already naked.”

“Really?” Her hand trailed down his stomach and lower. She stroked him to hardness, then slid a leg across his hips. She straddled him, then pulled off her T-shirt and flung it aside. The teddy bears would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

0615 hours

“Karen, what's this?”

She heard the words, the sound of them, but didn't understand them. She mumbled something, not really awake, then rolled over and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She was dimly aware of the bed shifting as Jack sat down; then his hand was on her hip, gently nudging her.

“Kare, I need you to wake up for a minute.”

“It's Sunday,” she grumbled, still more asleep than awake. “I don't have to work today.”

“I know, Kare, but I need to ask you something. Then you can go back to sleep.” Her hip was nudged again, not as gently, more persistently.

Grunting with displeasure, she rolled over to check the clock. Not even six-thirty. Her eyes swayed groggily to the windows. It was barely light out. Jack should know better; she never got up on Sunday until it was time for church.

“C'mon, Kare, I have to go to work soon.”

Fine. She pushed herself upright and sat up against the pillows. “Jack, you know Sundays are the only time I get to sleep in,” she snapped, hoping her irritation came through loud and clear. They'd had such a wonderful time last night. Why did he have to spoil it by waking her up? “What's so impor —”

“What's this?”

An icy fist squeezed her stomach. Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed as he had done so many times when he wanted to say goodbye before heading off to work. He had even sat there — on a different bed in a different bedroom — when he had proposed to her, a beautiful ring held in trembling fingers. His fingers were trembling now, but she knew he wasn't nervous.

“What's this?” he repeated, his voice calm, but she could hear the effort it required.

What could she say? He knew what it was. “A pregnancy test.”

His hand dropped to his lap. He fingered the damning piece of blue plastic, turning it slowly in his fingers before wrapping his fist around it. “Are you pregnant?” he asked, sounding tired.

It hurt her heart to hear him sound so tired. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head as if that would make this moment go away.
Please, God, let this be a bad dream.
But she knew it wasn't.

“Are you still on the pill?” Still calm, still tired, still not looking at her.

“Jack, let's not talk about this right now. We can discuss it tonight when you get home from work.”

He nodded as though he had heard words other than what she had said. He laughed, that short, cynical snort she had come to hate. If that damned division had a noise for her, it was that laugh. Harsh and utterly devoid of the Jack she knew and loved.

He bounced the test in his hand. “Guess you didn't shove it down deep enough into the garbage.” It was his turn to shake his head. Finally, he lifted his eyes to look at her. “Are you trying to get pregnant?”

Such a simple question. Asked so softly, so explicitly. She couldn't answer it, but then she really didn't have to answer it.

Again that laugh, that fucking laugh. “Was this your idea or your mother's? I'm betting Evelyn's.” His words came through clenched teeth, his voice quivering with effort. “What was the plan? Blackmail me? Give me an ultimatum? The baby or 51? Or am I not thinking grand enough? The baby or policing? That's it, isn't it?”

“Jack.” Karen reached for him, her fingers tracing the wound that had come so close to taking his eye. Every time she saw it, it terrified her, screamed at her, reminded her what could happen. If that could happen to him where he said it was safe, what could happen to him down there in that hellhole? How long before it was more than a scar? “Jack, I love you and I want you to be safe.”

She cupped his cheek, but the muscles under his skin were tight, unyielding. His eyes brimmed with tears, yet his gaze was cold. Wordlessly, he pulled back from her hand and slowly stood up.

“Jack, please.” She threw back the covers, made to get up, but he stopped her with an outstretched hand.

“Don't, Karen. I . . . I have to go to work.” He walked to the door, then stopped, his hand on the frame. He looked at her over his shoulder and she could see the tears were free. “I really hate . . . this.” And then he was gone.

Karen sagged onto the mattress, feeling empty and scared. Was it just her imagination, or had he paused before that last word? She thought he had and it horrified her to think of what he had meant to say, what he really hated.

She jumped as the car door slammed shut; then his car — that poor old beast Jack kept alive so she could drive the Honda — coughed to life. She waited for him to drive off, but the sounds from the engine remained in the driveway. The engine quit and her heart began to beat again as the car door opened. Now it was her turn to laugh, a huge sobbing gasp of relief.

She was out of the bed and partway down the stairs when the door slammed again and the engine roared to life. This time there was no hesitation, no second thought. The tires screeched over the engine's howls of protest and he was gone.

Jack sat in the car, his hands fisted on the steering wheel, his grip tight and painful. It was either that or hit something.

“I don't believe it. I don't fucking believe it.” He choked back sobs, felt them burning in his throat. How could she? How could she betray him like that? “Fuck!” He smashed his fists against the steering wheel. Again. And again. Screaming with each blow. As his hands slammed down the third time, something in his fist screamed back at him.

“Fuck,” he swore once more, but softly this time, the anger vanishing in the flare of pain that shot up his forearm. He cradled his right hand against his chest, wondering if he had broken anything. “My luck, I probably fucking have.”

The emotional pain, gut wrenching and foul, that gripped him as soon as he had seen the pregnancy test was gone, leaving him wrung out, spent.

Why did I have to look down when I threw out the razor blade? Why?

And the things he had said to Karen and the things he had almost said. Part of him wanted to go back in, apologize, make things right with his wife. He flexed his hand and the painful twinge decided him. He was acting like a prime fool.

He snapped off the ignition and opened the door.
We can talk this out; Karen's not like her mother.
He stopped abruptly, one foot on the asphalt, the thought of Evelyn Hawthorn freezing him half out of the car. Hadn't he wondered just last night why she had been nice to him lately, questioned what she was up to?

So that's it. Well, fuck me.

Karen letting herself get pregnant out of concern for him he could understand and deal with — but not if Evelyn was behind it. Karen would use the baby as a lever, something to strengthen her arguments against policing, against 51. But Evelyn . . . she would use the pregnancy the way a puppeteer used strings to make toys dance.

“I'm no fucking puppet.” Anger rose up from his belly, hot and righteous. It burned through his veins, exploded behind his eyes. He cast a final, hateful eye at the house, then dropped back into the driver's seat. Slamming the door felt good. Blasting the engine to life was better. Roaring away from the house as fast as he could felt the best.

The sickly sweet stink of marijuana smoke barely masked the stench of dried urine in the stairwell. Ah, the sights and smells of Regent Park, the unofficial heart of all the crap that was 51. A sprawling housing complex, home to the low-income, welfare and no-income. A breeding ground of violence and despair. Walking its halls and searching its apartments, Jack had met third- and fourth-generation welfare recipients. Why work if the government will pay you not to? And he had met crackheads and crack dealers, people who preyed on the weak and scum, who fed on fear and brutality.

Wonderful place to live,
Jack thought, stepping on a “crack can,” a pop can turned into a makeshift crack pipe. He had to remind himself there were also good people living within the park's sad buildings, although it was easy to forget the good when all he dealt with was the shit. And as corny as it sounded, the good people of Regent Park were one of the reasons he had come back to 51, but at the moment he had no idea if he and Manny would meet some of the good having a bad day or some of the shit being themselves.

They were trudging up the stairs to the third floor at 259 Sumach Street in answer to a frantic 911 call. It had come over as a domestic hotshot, but details were sketchy. The caller was a hysterical woman, her words incoherent between her sobs and a prominent language barrier. The call taker had heard a male yelling in the background. Coupled with a crying female, it added up to a domestic.

I'm not really in the mood to help other people with their domestic problems right now.
But Jack stepped out of the stairwell, then quickly scanned the hall in both directions. There was no need to check apartment numbers; the cinderblock tunnel of a hallway echoed with the sounds of the fight. All they had to do was follow the screeching.

Jenny was already by the door and so was Boris.
Holy shit! Maybe there is a Santa Claus after all!
The dispatcher had detailed an additional unit to attend with Jack and Manny's two-man car and Boris had been clear.

Too bad all the dispatcher sees is a badge number assigned to the car, otherwise she'd know Manny and I are still on our own. Guess Jenny knows that, too.

Sean Borovski — Boris to the shift just because he hated it — was not Jack's favourite person, let alone copper and Jack could have done without seeing his pudgy face today. Boris was grossly incarnate: grossly fat, grossly lazy, grossly embarrassing. His idea of good police work was measured by how many tickets he wrote and how many radio calls he could avoid. Jack had no problem slapping some paper on Mr. Average Joe if he deserved it, but there were enough assholes in the division who warranted special attention that there was no need to beef up your workload at the expense of people who actually paid taxes. Boris took the phrase “pronging the public” to new and nauseating heights.

Boris should head up to 53 and work with the Earl.

Which explained Jenny putting herself on the call. Jack was surprised, astounded really, that Boris was standing there with her. He had a knack of showing up when the cuffs were on or the report already started. Less chance of actually having to do something that way.

“Holy shit, Batman. I think this is the first time I've ever seen Boris not be the last one at a call,” Manny declared, echoing Jack's thoughts.

Jack just grunted.

“Hey, guys. I think it's coming from in there,” Jenny joked, pointing at the apartment door.

Boris just blinked and nodded.

The steel door, painted a thick, cloying blue, did little to mute the noise coming from the apartment. A woman was screaming in Chinese, raw and ripping. A male bellowed back at her, also in Chinese.

This sounds like it's going to be fucking pleasant.
“Just the two inside?”

“That's all I've been able to make out,” Jenny said. “Shall we?”

Jack made an
after you
gesture and Jenny unholstered her collapsible baton, then rammed the butt end against the door. Steel clanged on steel, silencing the shouting mid-screech. Locks clacked loudly in the sudden stillness and the door swung open. As soon as the uniforms were visible, the shouting began again, hers at the police and his at her. At least that's the way Jack thought it was going.

The woman had a baby tucked in the crook of one arm; her free hand was busy jabbing angrily at a man who stood across the room. Even the baby's wails couldn't drown out the woman's hellish screeching.

“Shush. Don't yell,” Jenny said calmly, stepping into the apartment.

The guys followed, Boris bringing up the rear.
Of course.

Jack grabbed Boris and they headed down the apartment's short hallway to check the rest of the place while Manny and Jenny corralled the man and woman in the living room. The unit was a small one bedroom and floor space was at a premium. A double bed and a crib fought for dominance in the bedroom and it took only seconds to clear the room and the closet.

“Nothing in the bathroom,” Boris advised as Jack joined him in the hall.

“Good.”
Would Boris say anything if he found a dead body laid out in the tub? Or would he pretend nothing was there so he could get back to avoiding work? Damn, I'm in a crappy mood.

He and Boris headed to the living room. The place was clean and tidy, albeit a bit cramped with furniture that seemed too big for the room. Nothing broken and no blood splattered in fancy, decorative patterns across the wallpaper. So far, so good.

The woman had slowed her rapid-fire monologue. Jack thought she was in her early twenties, if that, and other than eyes red and puffy from crying she appeared unharmed. Jenny had her in a corner and was talking to her in hushed tones. Manny had the guy, who easily looked twice the woman's age, in the kitchen. The man had his arms crossed defensively and was emphatically shaking his head to whatever Manny was saying.

“At least they're speaking English.”

Jack nodded. Every once in a while, Boris could say something inoffensive. Obvious and unnecessary but inoffensive.

It only took a few minutes for both sides of the story to be heard and assessed. There were always two sides to a story, if not more. That was one of the first lessons a cop learned, no matter where he worked.

Jenny and Manny met by the front door to compare notes. The wife — she was the man's wife, not his daughter, thankfully; the two had been yelling at each other with an intensity only an intimate relationship can create and Jack didn't want to think about that — sat on the couch sniffling into a tissue with the baby in her lap while the husband glared at the kitchen cabinets. Jack stood where he could keep an eye on both of them while Jenny and Manny conferred. It didn't take long.