None So Blind (13 page)

Green had always hated hospitals. Even the smell of them filled him with dread. It had been a quarter century since he had sat at his mother’s bedside, listening to the monitors beep and watching the life slowly ebb from her shrunken frame. She had not gone gently. If the Holocaust had given her unimaginable scars, it had also given her rage. She had not survived Hitler’s death plan just to be robbed by an enemy smaller than the head of a pin.

In the end, all her rage had been no match for the cancer, but the battle left Green with scars of his own. Now he had to fight memories as he tiptoed into his father’s room for a quick visit during his lunch hour. His nostrils closed against the smell of flowers, stale food, disinfectant, and urine. By the bed Sid’s lunch tray sat untouched, twin globs of congealing mush. Monitors beeped a steady, peaceful rhythm, and Sid Green’s breathing was quiet. He lay propped among pillows, slack-jawed and dozing, but at the whisper of Green’s shoes, he opened his eyes.

They focused slowly on his son and only then did his jaw work in his struggle to form words.

“Hi, Dad.” Green leaned over to kiss his father’s papery cheek. “You’re looking good today.”

Sid waved his functional left hand in irritated dismissal. The right hand was still a claw curved against his chest.

“Was the doctor in this morning?”

Sid nodded. Green watched him gather his words but he didn’t intervene. All the therapists said his recovery depended on his will to try. He finally produced two mangled words. “What use?”

“Give yourself time, Dad. Your brain has a lot of healing to do.” He gestured to the wheelchair by the bed. “Did they give you a ride today?”

Slowly Sid wagged his head back and forth.

“Do you want a spin? I can take you down to the sunroom.” Anything to escape this stifling room and give purpose to the visit. “I’ll ask the nurses to help you up.”

Sid sank into his pillows with a sigh. Green, however, took that as agreement and went to find some staff. His father was little more than a hundred pounds and Green was learning to transfer him, but it still took two people to accomplish it safely. Sid was more than a dead weight; his damaged body was stiff and resistant, so that all of them, Sid included, were sweaty and panting by the time Sid was strapped in.

His father’s face twisted and there were tears in his eyes. Sharon had warned Green that weeping was common among stroke patients, since their emotional control was weakened not only by their sense of loss but also by their damaged brain.

Nonetheless, Green felt a stab of pain. His father had already coped with so much over his life that this seemed an unfair blow. “I know it’s frustrating, Dad. Tomorrow I’ll take you outside. Spring’s here.”

Sid hit the armrest of his wheelchair. “No,” he said, shaking his head and sending spittle flying. “Not in this.”

“It’s not forever, Dad.”

Green had no idea whether it was forever. The doctors were pessimistic that he would ever use a walker again, given his advanced age and frailty, but at this moment, hope was all his father had.

“Hate this, hate this.” Sid continued to flail at the wheelchair until Green reached out to stop his hand. He folded it gently around the armrest.

“Hang on tight, we’re going for a ride!”

He wheeled his father slowly around the ward, dodging gurneys, supply carts, and patients wrestling their walkers down the hall. The smell of hospital disinfectant and bland food soured every breath, but Green soldiered on, gaily commenting on the staff and other patients Sid had met before.

Sid greeted everyone with the same uninterested stare. Even the sight of the noon sunshine outside did not rouse a smile. Once he was back in his bed, with his blanket tucked up to his chin, he finally looked up at Green. He said nothing, but the wordless plea in his eyes was eloquent enough.
Fix this
, he seemed to say.
Fix it, or end it
.

Instead, Green cheerfully announced he’d be back tomorrow with Hannah. He was hoping for a flicker of joy, for Hannah was his father’s favourite. When Sid merely frowned, Green fled the room. He stopped in the parking lot to recover his equilibrium, and with a heavy heart he finally returned the social worker’s call. It’s preliminary, she said, but we need to talk about placement options.

Placement options
, he thought grimly. As if his father were a carcass in need of storage. Sharon had raised the same issue on the weekend, gently but firmly, and they had even driven out to look at a couple of homes. As he listened to the social worker describing the cheerful gardens and caring staff, all he could see were wheelchairs with their desiccated charges lined up along the wall. Bodies dying, eyes already dead.

He was still subdued when he arrived back at the station. Waiting to greet him was Marie Claire Levesque. She followed him to his office with her notebook in hand and studied him so warily that he wondered if his despair was written on his face.

He forced his face into neutral. “What is it, Marie Claire?”

“Sir, the preliminary post-mortem results are available on James Rosten. Staff Sergeant Sullivan asked me to inform you.”

Green was surprised, for James Rosten had died only four days earlier and his was not a high priority case. MacPhail must have been bored enough to work on the weekend. Green invited her inside and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. On the surface, his office appeared more orderly now, but files and manuals had been shoved into the bookcase willy-nilly.

As she settled in and crossed her legs, Levesque’s gaze roamed over the titles. “You have some interesting old documents, sir.”

He grinned. “If you mean my shelves need clearing out, you’re right.”

“You’ve been in Major Crimes a long time.”

His grin faded and he felt a quiver of paranoia. Was this Levesque’s attempt at rapprochement or was there a sinister innuendo in her words? A suggestion that perhaps it was too long …

“It’s the best place to be,” he replied before steering her away. “What did MacPhail find?”

She pursed her lips and opened her notebook. “James Rosten was a fifty-year-old white male in —”

“Just the good stuff, Marie Claire.”

Straightening her back, she began to recite. “Rosten was a healthy man. Heart, lungs, liver, bones, GI, everything was normal. Better than normal for a man of his age, because he consumed no drugs or alcohol most of his adult life. He died where he was found, sitting in his chair. There were no marks on the body, no bruises or lacerations that suggest a struggle, and no changes in lividity that suggest he was displaced after death. However, there was sufficient alcohol and diazepam in his system to kill a horse, mostly in his blood and tissues, some still in his stomach — along with a partially digested mix of Indian curry. Dr. MacPhail estimates he died about an hour after he ate.”

“Suggesting the meal was eaten at the same time or slightly earlier than the alcohol.”

Levesque nodded. “A killer chaser, sir. It appears the pills were swallowed with straight Scotch.”

Green pictured Rosten, alone in his beloved cottage, sitting in the living room and gazing out at the spectacular view. Trapped by his past, trapped by his future. Green already knew from the scenario what MacPhail’s conclusion would be, but he had to ask.

“Death by suicide,” Levesque replied, sounding disappointed the case was over when she’d barely started. “There was too much alcohol and drugs in his system to be accidental. He had one intention, and one intention only.”

Green nodded. “Did Ident find anything?”

“No. The prints on the bottles were Rosten’s, and there was no sign of disturbance or struggle.”

Green’s shroud of gloom grew heavier. Life had to be pretty bleak and painful for a man to choose death as a solution. When had Rosten made the decision? When his daughter had avoided his latest call? When Marilyn had visited to remind him of his horrific deed? When the doctor at Kingston General had dashed his hopes of greater recovery? When he’d found life on the outside even lonelier and more purposeless than life inside?

But Green had a nagging fear that it was none of those reasons. He feared Rosten had known all along, from the moment he applied for parole and pretended to make plans for the future, that he was going to kill himself. All he needed was the freedom and opportunity to arrange the deed.

In which case, Green and Archie had played right into his hands.

There would be official repercussions, given that Rosten had died under the Correctional Service of Canada’s watch, but unless the family or the media raised a fuss, Rosten’s sad story would soon be buried under paperwork.

“Has the family been informed?”

Levesque nodded. “The coroner’s office notified them the body is ready for release. The wife doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want anything to do with the funeral either. The other sister” — Levesque consulted her notes — “Pamela, also doesn’t want it. Paige Henriksson is going to take the body, but even she doesn’t seem too happy about it.” Levesque flushed. “I imagine she wouldn’t be, would she? Her father just killed himself and that’s bad enough. But she hardly knew him and now there is all this media attention on herself, her kid, and her husband.”

Not what the worried, overwhelmed mother living in the fishbowl of suburbia would wish for, certainly. “Let’s try to keep this low key, Sergeant. Let the coroner’s office handle the media; they might bury the story on the back pages.”

Levesque frowned. Green suspected she at least wanted her moment in the limelight to demonstrate how efficiently her team had co-operated with the coroner and wrapped up the case. But she snapped her book shut and rose with a curt nod before gliding out of his office. Leaving a faint scent of spice in her wake. Indefinable, rather like Levesque herself.

Shaking his head sharply, Green picked up the phone. Archie needed to be told so that he could brace himself for the fallout. To his surprise, Archie wasn’t worried about his own hide at all.

“That’s nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Suicide? I don’t buy it. Mike, I’ve searched his room, my records, and my soul, but I can’t make that fit. There are no hints of suicidal ideation in his room or on his laptop. He left all his belongings arranged as if he were planning to return in a day or two. His computer search history is all about science and modern Internet skills, and his Documents file is full of lecture notes and lesson plans for the courses he was hoping to teach. Plus, he’s been reading up on literacy challenges and employment qualifications at the library. This was a guy who was looking ahead.”

“Something must have happened to tip the balance.”

“Like what? His visit from his daughter? Unless she said something absolutely crushing, I don’t think so. He had zero expectations about his chances with his family when he got out, so any contact — any chance — was better than he’d ever hoped.”

“Then maybe Marilyn Carmichael’s visit brought out all the guilt he’d been avoiding.”

Archie was silent a moment as if replaying the visit. “He’s not a guy to open up easily. We talked a bit about his feelings in the past few weeks since he’s been out, but mainly about him missing the activities and people on the inside, and how surprised he was by that. But he never talked about feeling guilty about his crime. When he was going to meet Mrs. Carmichael, he kept wondering why she wanted to see him, even why she supported his parole. He was nervous she was up to something. But afterwards … no, he didn’t act guilty. He acted upset, agitated, like he was seeing something for the very first time. I suppose, once that sank in, maybe guilt would follow, but I never sensed that. And I’ve got pretty good radar. Even the morning I drove him to the train station for his medical appointment, he was energized. Determined.”

“But then he got one more blow.”

“Yeah, but you know this guy. He’s not going to take the first
no
for an answer.”

Green had no argument for that. “But, the fact is, after that appointment he climbed on a train, drove to the place of his happiest memories, and drank himself into oblivion.”

Archie muttered a soft, sad prayer. “I know. And I let it happen. I was blind.”

“You don’t know that. It might have been a moment of impulse.”

“Oh no! Whatever his intention was when he got there, he planned that trip days ahead. He persuaded his PO to let him travel alone and he packed his bag with just enough overnight supplies that staff wouldn’t get suspicious.”

A curious thought popped into Green’s head. “When did he ask if he could make that trip by himself? Before or after Marilyn Carmichael’s visit?”

“Gee, I …” Archie muttered and wheezed. “After. That’s when he got really excited about the doctor’s visit too. You think that might be important?”

“I don’t know,” Green said. “It does make me really curious about what Marilyn said to him, though. If somehow it tipped him over the edge.” He thought of Marilyn’s reaction to the news of Rosten’s death. He’d expected mixed emotions, including relief, but not horror. As if she knew more about his death than she let on.

Archie broke through his puzzled thoughts. “Another person who’s going to feel really bad is Paige. She was on the fence about seeing him again. I’d like to speak to her personally, but there’s no way I can get away from here right now. Things are a mess.”

He didn’t elaborate but Green could guess. Archie had to tread a fine line with the rigid, almost paramilitary bureaucracy of Corrections. This time his rule-bending had cost a man his life. Green squinted at his calendar on his desk. Superintendent Neufeld had called a meeting of her minions for 3:30. That would give him at most an hour before his meeting with the hospital social worker.

“Are you asking me to go see her?” he said.

“If you could, yeah,” Archie replied. “Tell her … tell her none of us saw this coming. And if it’s any comfort to her, I still can’t believe it.”

Neufeld’s meeting dragged on for two hours. The woman was obsessive, combing through every comma in her mandate, including some Green had never known existed. CID had been under temporary management for over a year, so some of her housekeeping was justified, but Green chafed as the discussions of minutiae droned on. In the end, he was forced to cancel his meeting with the social worker and it was well past seven o’clock by the time he drew up to the curb outside Paige Henriksson’s house. In the life of a family with young children, it was crazy hour. Cranky, tired children, baths, pyjamas, bedtime stories, and then the fight to get them to sleep. He sat in his car debating the wisdom of speaking to her now. But his own family, and his own tired wife, awaited him too.