Stray Bullets (8 page)

“I’m Detective Ari Greene. This is Officer Kennicott.”

Kennicott nodded, staying back.

“Did you get everything you need while you were waiting?” Greene asked Larkin, as courteous as a friendly waiter.

“I guess.” He looked at a Coke can and the crumpled-up bag of potato chips on the floor beside his chair. “I’ve got to piss but they won’t let me.”

“I want to make sure you know what will happen today.” Greene ignored his comment. “Right now I’m going to arrest you. After that Officer Kennicott and I will leave and you can speak with your lawyer. When you’re done, two forensic officers will come in and do GSR tests on your hands.”

St. Clair twitched and rubbed his hands on his pants. The kid was experienced enough to know that GSR meant gunshot residue.

“They’ll take away all your clothes to test them too.” Greene pointed up high to the far corner of the room. “I had the camera turned off when you were alone here with your lawyer, but it was put back on a few minutes ago when Officer Kennicott and I came in.”

St. Clair stared at Greene.

He looked over to Kennicott and nodded. Kennicott pulled out the gloves and bag from his back pocket and collected St. Clair’s Coke can and chip bag.

No one said a word.

Greene looked over at Parish. She was doing her best to keep her face neutral, which was tough to do after seeing her client try to rub his hands clean on his clothes.

Everyone in the room knew that gunshot residue was like thousands of tiny pieces of Velcro. If St. Clair had fired a gun, or even handled one after it had been fired, there’d be traces of it on him. And Greene intended to shake them out.

Ralph Armitage’s corner office was enormous and he loved it. There was the credenza behind his desk that he’d filled with photos of himself and Penny on their various vacations—skiing at Whistler, scuba-diving in Costa Rica, trekking in Nepal. The law books that lined two whole walls. And the wide windows on the last wall that looked out onto Nathan Phillips Square, the wide-open space in front of city hall named after one of Toronto’s most progressive mayors, where right now sleety snow was pelting down.

Best of all was his long and wide desk, the center point of the room, which he kept meticulously clean except for the current file he was working on. This was in stark contrast to his predecessor, Jennie Raglan. Her desk had been a flurry of papers, constantly getting shuffled and lost. She never closed her door, which made her office a Grand Central Station of Crown Attorneys rushing in and out at every moment.

When Armitage took over, he’d tried to establish a less chaotic way of running things. He closed his door and made a point of meeting with lawyers one at a time. He forced them to schedule their appointments and expected them to arrive promptly.

At precisely ten o’clock there was a knock on his door. He slipped the guest list for the party that Penny wanted him to approve into the top drawer. Two pages done, ten to go.

“Albert, come on in.” He swung the door open and made way for Albert Fernandez, an ambitious young Crown Attorney whom he’d picked to work with him on the prosecution team.

Fernandez wore a well-tailored suit, and his black shoes were polished to a shine worthy of a four-star general. The guy was a bit stiff, Armitage thought. Maybe because he was born in Chile and came to Canada as a kid. But he was the hardest worker in the office. Was up on all the most recent court decisions. Exactly the type of lawyer he needed on this case.

“I’ve updated Larkin St. Clair’s criminal record,” Fernandez said, sitting in one of the two clients’ chairs facing the big desk.

Armitage came out and sat beside Fernandez. Albert wasn’t a name
you could easily make a nickname out of, he thought. All his nicknames ended in the “ee” sound. He tried to imagine calling Fernandez “Fernie,” but it just didn’t work.

“There’s a full page of convictions and another two and a half pages of charges he beat,” Fernandez said, passing over the papers.

Armitage looked over St. Clair’s criminal history with a practiced eye. Possession of stolen property. Fraud. Joyriding. Theft under five thousand dollars, then later theft over five thousand dollars. The home-invasion case that Armitage had lost was on the last page: mischief and theft over five thousand dollars, robbery, sexual assault—charges withdrawn.

“In about an hour, Detective Greene will have the wiretaps set to go at the East,” Fernandez said.

The East was the Toronto East Detention Centre, the jail that would be St. Clair’s home for the foreseeable future. Greene wanted everything in place before he arrived. It was incredible how recently charged prisoners couldn’t resist yakking their head off on the phone. Even experienced criminals. Drove their defense lawyers to distraction.

“Where’s St. Clair now?” Armitage asked.

“Greene’s still interviewing him,” Fernandez said.

“Perfect. I prosecuted St. Clair when he was in kiddie court. The guy can’t keep his trap shut. What else?”

“St. Clair’s friend, Dewey Booth.” Fernandez handed over a second set of papers. “His record’s even longer. Got out of the Kingston Pen four days ago. St. Clair missed his appointment with his probation officer the next day.”

“I remember Booth,” Armitage said. “He’s the quiet one.”

“Probation officer says St. Clair was actually doing alright until Booth was back on the street.”

“Buddies in crime. Anything put Booth at the scene?”

“Witnesses have St. Clair drinking coffee with a short red-haired guy in the Tim’s minutes before the shooting.”

“Anyone see him outside?”

“No. And no one sees where he goes after the shooting.”

“What about an outdoor video?”

“There is one and St. Clair’s on it, but not Booth.”

“Too bad,” Armitage said.

“Detective Greene said they’re looking for him.”

Armitage stood and stretched, his long arms well above his head. “Good work, Albert.” He had to find a way to loosen Fernandez up if they
were going to be stuck together on this trial for the next six months. He checked his watch. “I’ve got to chuck you out of here in five minutes,” he said. “A reporter, Awotwe Amankwah, from the
Star
wants to talk to me.”

Fernandez looked at him. “About this case?” he asked.

Most Crowns were terrified of the press and Armitage thought this civil-servant mentality was ridiculous. “No, no, he just wants to discuss the rise in shoplifting as the Christmas season approaches.”

“Really?” Fernandez looked relieved.

Did this guy have no sense of humor? “I was kidding,” Armitage said. “Of course he wants to talk about the case. There’s no other news in the city. The press is going nuts for this story.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

Armitage was tempted to say “Members of the Crown’s office are upset because this is going to interfere with their Christmas holiday plans,” but he didn’t want Fernandez to have a heart attack right there. He turned his face serious. “That we’re outraged. That this type of crime touches everyone in the city. That we’re not going to lose Toronto to gun violence. That we’ll work night and day to prosecute those responsible for this horrible crime.” As he spoke, his own words sank in with real meaning.

He could see they had an impact on Fernandez too.

“Good,” the young Crown said.

“Who’s St. Clair’s lawyer?” Armitage asked.

“Nancy Parish. She’s represented him forever.”

“That’s right.” He remembered her from St. Clair’s home-invasion case. When the nanny’s daughter didn’t show up for court, Parish didn’t gloat, as some counsel would have done. Class act.

His phone rang. He popped out of his chair and looked down at the call display on his desk. “Sorry,” he said to Fernandez, “I have to take this.”

“Go ahead.”

“Ralph Armitage.” He listened for a few moments and then gave a series of answers: “Yes, sir.” “I understand.” “I agree.” “Believe me, I know.” “Yes, I’ve decided on the prosecutor.” “Me.” “That’s right.” “Thanks.” Then he hung up.

He turned back to Fernandez. Maybe I could call him Albie, he thought.

“That was the mayor. Before you came in, the premier called too.” He lowered his voice. “This is not to leave this room. They both said the same thing: No matter what, no deals for St. Clair. We’re going all the way. Get this rat convicted of first-degree murder.”

“Jesus Christ, Larkin.” Nancy Parish was alone again in the room with her client, sitting in the chair beside him. Out of an abundance of caution, she placed him with his back to the camera. Detective Greene had assured her it would be turned off again. Parish knew he was an honest cop who played by the rules and would respect solicitor-client confidentiality. But still.

“What’d I do?” St. Clair asked.

“Rubbed your hands on your pants the moment Greene mentioned the GSR. It’s all on tape. Why didn’t you just say ‘Yeah I fired the gun’?”

Larkin’s jaw dropped. He reached back to collect his long hair, a nervous tic of his. But nothing was there. “Damn it,” he said.

“We’re not going to talk about it now. Not here,” she said. “But remember, all you have to do is be near a shooter. Or touch the gun after it’s been shot. GSR sticks to everything like crazy glue.”

He bent forward and rubbed his hands together between his knees, like Lady Macbeth trying to get rid of the blood, she thought.

“The newspapers say there’s a video of you running from the scene, jamming something in the front of your pants,” she said.

“It wasn’t the gun.”

“What was it?”

“A pack of smokes. I swear.”

“Great. Where’s the gun?”

“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t.”

She knew St. Clair too well. Telling the truth, even to her, never came easily to him. And the more he protested that he was being “honest,” the more likely it was that he was lying. She shook her head. “Larkin.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“You got one chance. The cops and the Crown are going to be wild to find that gun. You got anything I can use?”

“Use? Use for what?”

“Information. Cut a deal. Right now you’re trapped. And Dewey’s
God knows where. But trust me, last night while you were having some happy time with one of your girlfriends, he was changing his fucking clothes and taking a long hot shower. Once they find that GSR on you, it’s all over.”

St. Clair jumped out of the chair and paced around her in a wide circle that gradually narrowed, as if he were a dog looking for a place to lie down. He came to a stop, his back to her. “I don’t rat, man, I told you.”

“This is murder.” She believed Greene when he said the camera was turned off, but still she was whispering. More like hissing, she thought. “Not some stupid break-and-enter. Twenty-five years.”

“So what?” St. Clair lowered his voice, echoing her. “Dewey was in the pen for three years. He’s connected now. I won’t last five days if I rat him out.”

“It’s your call,” she said.

“I just made it.”

He sat on the chair across from her. All she could do was stare at him.
I knew he was telling the truth
. That’s what the nanny’s daughter had said about St. Clair when he saved her from being raped by Dewey Booth.

“Greene’s going to interview you,” Parish said. “I can’t be in the room. He’s going to feed you all sorts of reasons to talk to him.”

“Such as?”

“Who knows. They have a witness. They already found Dewey and he’s ratted you out.”

“No fucking way that’s going to happen.”

Parish squeezed her fists in frustration. “I’m not saying it happened. They’re allowed to tell you any fairy tale they want to trick you into talking. Where’s that letter I gave you in the car?”

He reached into his back pocket. “Here.”

She took it and tossed it on the floor beside his chair.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked.

“Because for the GSR test they’re going to bag your hands. You won’t be able to reach it.”

“Smart.”

“Hah. I wish I had some duct tape.”

“What, you want to tie me up?”

“No,” she said. “Seal your lips. Look, when I say ‘nothing’ I mean absolutely nothing.”

“Fine.”

“Okay, practice time. Pretend I’m Greene.”

She stood up, went to the door, and walked back to the chair beside him. “Hi, Larkin.” She pointed to the camera in the corner. “I turned the video back on, that okay with you?”

“No problem,” he said.

Parish smacked him on the arm. Hard.

“What?” he said.

“I said say nothing, that means nada. Zip. Tape it up. Not a word. Got it?”

He bit down on his lip.

“I said: ‘Got it?’”

He shook his head.

“Don’t even do that. I want you to do nothing.”

Daniel Kennicott sat beside Ari Greene and watched Larkin St. Clair on a monitor. They’d turn the camera back on once his lawyer had left. He stood on a bedsheet—there to collect any GSR flakes that dropped off his clothes and body—and stripped off his clothes. Two male forensic officers were at his side, and they gave him fresh underwear, an orange jumpsuit, and paper slippers, then put bags over both of his hands and taped them around his wrists.

After Greene and Kennicott were done interviewing St. Clair, the same officers would come back in, remove the bags, and test his hands for GSR. This could have been done before they talked to him, but Greene thought St. Clair would feel more vulnerable with his hands bound up.

The forensic officers packed up their gear and left the room, closing the door behind them. Kennicott got up to go back inside.

Greene didn’t budge. “He can wait for a while,” he said.

Kennicott sat back down. St. Clair fidgeted like crazy. Shook his head, rocked back and forth, and finally got up and walked in a tight circle. Sometimes he reached back behind his head in search of his shorn-off long hair, the bags over his hands causing him even more frustration.

Greene’s eyes were riveted to the screen, and they watched together in silence for about ten minutes.

“Let’s go,” he said at last. “Take the chair beside him. I’ll stand by the door. It will make him think I don’t care if he talks or not. Larkin’s a kid who needs attention.”