The Arx (6 page)

The activity in the room gradually ceased as, one by one, his former colleagues became aware of his presence, and the bustle faded to an uncomfortable silence.

Finally Art Crawford, a solid detective and one of Frank’s ex-poker buddies, strode over and shook his hand.

“Frank – good to see you! How’s it going? We’ve missed you.”

“Hi Art,” Frank said.

Jill Stamford, one of the new recruits for whom Frank had been a mentor, also shook his hand, though, Frank thought, tentatively.

“Great to see you, Frank,” she said. “It’s been too long. Hey, you know I made detective!”

“Congratulations,” Frank said.

He studied the other faces in the room. They were a confused blend of pity, condescension, and genuine friendship. The tension expanded through his body: blood pumping harder, breath accelerating. A vein at his right temple twitched annoyingly. He wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

Near the back of the room, standing at the center of a knot of activity, stood Grant Stocker, Lead Detective – the job that should have been Frank’s. Frank pushed past his former colleagues, shaking the occasional hand and nodding this way and that, until he was face to face with Stocker.

Grant Stocker was a big man with a profile like a side of beef, who seemed perpetually in danger of popping the buttons on his suit. His nose was large, red, and laced with spider veins. His fine brown hair had disappeared on top, a condition he tried to conceal by combing several long wispy strands over his baldness.

When he was presented with a difficult problem, Stocker’s face would contort into a pinched bundle of wrinkled seriousness, a façade behind which, Frank was convinced, nothing was actually happening. Stocker had been a pain in Frank’s ass ever since the day they both entered the Police Academy. He was ignorant, arrogant, and not very bright, but that never seemed to stand in the way of regular rewards and promotions. Something always seemed to prevent Stocker’s many blunders from sticking to him, and he’d been propelled to ever higher levels of responsibility.

When Jack Sanders, the Lead Detective, chose to retire, Stocker had been Frank’s only rival for the vacated post. The overwhelming sentiment in the squad was for Frank to get the job. Frank was intelligent, resourceful, able to think on his feet, and potentially a great leader. His breakdown had changed all that, and with Frank out of the picture, the administration had promoted Stocker to the position.

Beside Stocker stood a younger man Frank didn’t recognize. He was shorter than Stocker – in fact dwarfed by Stocker’s bulk. The man bore a disturbing resemblance to Frank himself – thin, with a dark complexion and straight jet black hair. The collar of his dress shirt was too tight; it made the skin bulge out around his neck. He was glued to Stocker’s side like a pet dog waiting for a command.

Stocker made an unsuccessful attempt to project compassion on seeing Frank back in the squad room.

“Hi Frank,” he said, pumping Frank’s hand in a painful grip. “It’s been too long. How’re you doing?”

He tilted his head at Frank’s double. “This is Terry Hastings, my new assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Frank said, nodding and shaking the assistant’s hand.

Frank turned back to Stocker. “I need to talk to you in your office.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Stocker said, a smile on his jowly face. “Can’t spare the time – got some major investigations on the burner. I can spare a minute right here and now if you want.”

“Okay,” Frank said. “It’s about this baby kidnapping case – the Hanon woman.”

Stocker peered down at him like he was a child asking for his first sip of beer.

“Frank,” he said. “You of all people should know that I can’t discuss an active case with a civilian. You got information that bears on that investigation, make an appointment to talk to a
detective
.”

“Cut the crap,” Frank said, taking a step toward him.

Stocker stepped back like he’d been slapped. The conversations around them halted.

“You’ve been running with the idea that Gloria Hanon murdered her own child,” Frank said. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“And you base that belief on what?” Stocker said.

“I knew her. That baby was her life – there’s no way she would ever have harmed him.”

“Well, that’s a pretty compelling argument, Frank,” Stocker said, smiling and rocking back on his heels. “But here at the squad we put together cases based on
hard
evidence
. I’m glad you hit it off with your little friend, but according to the
evidence
the investigation’s a done deal.”

Frank clenched his fists and fought for control.

“Gloria Hanon couldn’t handle the stress,” Stocker continued. He stared at Frank as if to say:
You should know something about that.
“She was on the edge already. She snapped and did away with the kid, then came on with the grief-stricken mother routine. If you’re aware of any
facts
that would indicate otherwise, I’d love to hear them.”

Frank hesitated, knowing how what he was about to say would sound. “I don’t think the baby they found in the car was the Hanon baby,” he finally said.

“What!” Stocker said, incredulous.

Frank pushed on. “I think you should conduct DNA tests on Gloria Hanon and the baby from the car.”

“Hoooold on,” Stocker stifled a laugh. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that someone snuck up fifteen floors to Gloria Hanon’s apartment, broke in, kidnapped her baby in the ten minutes that she was having a shower, stole her car, replaced her baby with another baby, torched the car, and – then what – kept the Hanon baby?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Stocker laughed. “Wow – that’s one twisted perp you’ve got there Frank.”

“Do the test. It’s not hard. Prove me wrong.”

Stocker’s smile disappeared. “We found the Hanon woman’s car. We found the baby inside it. I’m not going to waste the taxpayers’ money on a pointless test just to please you.”

“I’ve looked into some other cases,” Frank said. “I’ve found several that strongly resemble the Hanon case.”

“Cases from where?” Stocker glared down at him. “Who’s leaking case documents to you?”

Shit!
Frank thought.
I’ve got to watch myself. I’m not thinking straight.
“I dug up news stories on the web,” he said.

“So what are you saying?” Stocker said, buying Frank’s explanation. “You think this is some kind of baby-napping conspiracy?”

“I think that some group – and it has to be a group, because it’s well organized – is systematically kidnapping children. The abductions are meticulously planned to lead investigators to conclusions other than kidnapping.”

The crowd, even some of Frank’s closer former colleagues, stared uncomfortably at the floor or looked away. The pressure he’d felt earlier intensified, as if gravity had been re-jigged at a hundred times its normal level. It drove him into the floor and threatened to choke him and crush his vital organs. He fought for breath. The walls of the room began to twist and shear sideways as the ceiling moved downward.

Stocker shook his head slowly. “Go home, Frank,” he said, placing a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Get some rest. Leave the Hanon case to us
detectives
.”

Frank jerked his shoulder away. A couple of the men beside Stocker closed ranks around him. Frank backed up a step.

“Hi Frank,” a voice said behind him.

He turned. It was Sergeant Reid, the head of the unit.

“Frank, why don’t you come into my office and talk,” Reid suggested.

“Sure, why not,” Frank said, gratefully turning his back on Stocker.

“Nice talking to you, Frank,” Stocker called after them as they walked away. “Don’t be a stranger.”

They entered Reid’s office. “Close the door,” Reid said, taking a seat behind his desk. “Sit down.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk and Frank sat. “What brings you back here, Frank?”

“The Hanon case. I don’t think the baby they found in Gloria Hanon’s car was hers. I wanted Stocker to do a DNA test to confirm that.”

“And he refused?” Reid said. He pulled at one end of his bushy mustache.

“What do you think? Isn’t there something you can do to force him…?”

Reid leaned forward.

“First off,” he said, “you’ve got no business involving yourself in an ongoing police investigation. You’re not on active duty. That may change, but until then…“

Frank opened his mouth, but Reid cut him off.

“Second, you know as well as I do that it’s Stocker’s case. I can’t force him to pursue an avenue he doesn’t believe will lead anywhere. If I had compelling proof that the test was warranted…”

Frank wanted to mention the teeth, but couldn’t break his promise to Rebecca about the Coroner’s report.

“I’ve got new information I can’t divulge right now,” he said instead. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“I’ll do what I can to convince him,” Reid said, “but like I say, in the end it’s his decision.”

The two men studied each other. Finally Reid said, “How’re you holding up, Frank?”

“I’m fine. Never been better.”

“You’ve looked better.”

Frank shrugged.

“You know,” Reid said leaning back, “I’ve lost count of the men and women I’ve prepared for the squad over the years. Every one of them was subjected to a rigorous barrage of tests: strength, judgment, moral fiber, psychological fitness. You know the drill. You went through it like everybody else.”

Frank stared at him but said nothing.

“Fact is,” Reid continued, “None of those tests can predict with absolute certainty how someone will cope with a specific set of circumstances.”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

Reid leaned forward again. “It takes a certain type of person to be a homicide detective. You’ve got to be able to cope with situations that would make the average Joe run away screaming.

“You’re a good guy Frank, and you were good at your job – you were better than good – you were one of the best detectives I’ve ever had in the squad, but – maybe that’s not enough. Maybe you don’t have the psychological armour to handle some of the stuff that goes on here. No shame in that. That would put you in a club with ninety-nine percent of people on the planet. That should have shown up on the tests, but like I said, the tests aren’t always a perfect indicator.”

“So you don’t think I can take the pressure?” Frank said.

“All I’m saying is that you should think about it. What happened to you is the worst I’ve ever seen, but we have to be able to handle the worst. That’s our job.”

Frank slunk out the back door, his fists still clenching and un-clenching, feeling like a bum tossed out of a bar. Reid had recommended it to avoid another run-in with Stocker. It was humiliating, but he jumped at the chance. An urge he’d been fighting since his decision to revisit the squad now struck him full force.

He needed a drink.

Frank Meets Another Bottle

Macky’s
, the bar he walked into, was a dump: dark, dirty, and tinged with the odour of urine and vomit.

Good,
he thought.
Not much chance of meeting anybody from the squad.

The place was almost empty. An unshaven drunk in rags hunched over a table in one corner, an empty beer glass in front of him. He was carefully sliding coins from one tiny pile to another. A pair of bikers sat near one of the smoke-streaked windows laughing, their feet stretched out on chairs in front of them.

Frank made his way to a table in the darkest corner and sat with his back to the wall. After a few minutes he still hadn’t been served. He gave up and went to the bar. The bartender was talking to the lone patron sitting on a barstool.

“You know what I mean,” Frank overheard the man say.

“Yeah,” the bartender said. He finally noticed Frank and came over. Frank ordered a sleeve and the bartender brought it. Frank turned to head back to his table, but it had been taken over by a nodding old man. Frank sat back down on the barstool.

“How about you, Bob,” the bartender said to the other patron.

“Sure,” Bob said, “gimme another one – ‘just like the other one…’ he sang.

Bob and the bartender resumed their conversation.

Frank stared into the mirror behind the bar. He saw his image but it was like he was looking at someone else. The guy in the mirror took a long pull on his beer, felt the familiar buzz, and waited for the memory of the humiliating events in the squad room to fade.

He ordered another beer, and added a shot of scotch to the mix. They went down fast and he ordered a couple more, still crushed by the image of Stocker sneering down at him like he was some pathetic loser, still devastated by the expressions of pity on the faces of the men whose respect he’d once commanded.

Frank reached for his latest beer and knocked it over. The bartender cleaned up the mess and brought him another one. He then returned to his conversation with Bob, the other man at the bar. With nothing better to do, Frank listened in.