Savage Rage (17 page)

“Hey, guys. What's the holdup?” Manny squeezed past them into the hall. And froze. “Oh, crap.”

Paul stuck his head past Jack's shoulder. He was silent for a moment, then asked, very quietly, “Should we run?”

“Only if you want it to chase you,” Jenny advised in a strained whisper.

In the front room, lying on the bed to catch the cozy morning sunshine coming through the window, was the biggest pit bull Jack had ever seen. It rolled from its side to its belly, its massive head cocked quizzically as it studied the four strangers in front of it. The dog stood up on the bed and stretched slowly, its powerful jaws cracking open in a huge yawn, revealing equally huge teeth.

“It's freaking immense.” Paul's voice was hushed. Paul didn't do well with dogs. “I bet it weighs more than you, Jenny.”

“No shit,” she said, never taking her eyes off the monster.

“Fuck that,” Manny breathed. “I think it weighs more than me.”

All of them were frozen, fixated on the dog, guns half raised. Jack suddenly imagined what the dog was seeing: four cops — Jack hoped it hadn't been trained by an asshole owner to recognize and attack uniforms — at the end of the hall, three of them stacked neatly from smallest to biggest and leaning out the door, the fourth flattened against the wall. It was something out of a Keystone Kops routine. Jack hoped the pit bull had a sense of humour.

The dog's fur was a dark burnt orange slashed with streaks of black. Jack could see the muscles in its chest and shoulders rippling beneath the fur as it shifted its weight on the mattress.

“Do you think our guns can stop it?” Manny asked, not sounding too confident.

Jack seriously doubted it. “You see the size of that head? It's fucking armour plated.”

“Um, guys? It's moving.” Jenny shuffled slightly, adjusting her position.

Jack prayed there would be time later for crude comments.

The dog let out a great huff, then hopped off the bed and thumped heavily onto the floor. Four guns came up on target. The dog huffed again and trotted toward them, its claws clicking in an almost merry way on the floorboards. Its jaws slipped open in what Jack swore was a grin and its tongue lolled out as it panted its way to them.

“Ease up, everyone,” Jack cautioned. The dog wasn't charging them. If anything, its gait had a happy bounce to it. Jack lowered his gun and stepped in front of Jenny.

“Jaaack,” Manny moaned, but Jack waved him to silence.

The dog stopped when Jack moved but jounced forward when he knelt down. Jack had his Glock by his right side, but he knew he wouldn't need it. The pit bull barrelled into him hard and would have knocked him over if Manny hadn't been there to support him. The great head butted Jack's stomach and the dog simply stood there, head nestled comfortably, whipcord tail wagging in happy anticipation.

Jack holstered up and set both hands to scratching behind tiny, floppy ears. The tail flailed in frenzied ecstasy. Jack grinned at his cohorts. “Why don't you guys clear the rooms while me and my new friend get acquainted?”

Manny and Jenny stepped past — Jenny reached down for a pat as she passed — but Paul inched by, so tight against the wall he was almost a part of it. Bikers, crazed druggies, guns, knives, Paul had faced them all. Usually with a smile on his face. He really didn't do well with dogs.

The dog — Max, according to the bone-shaped tag on his collar — was on his back, one hind leg jerking uncontrollably as Jack rubbed his belly, when Manny declared the rooms clear.

“No victim, no crime.”

“That Bob Marley?” Jenny joked.

“Kind of. You about finished, Doctor Doolittle?”

“Yeah, guess so.” Jack reluctantly stopped the belly scratch and Max flopped onto to his paws.

After a vigorous shake, he followed the officers down the stairs. Except for Paul. Paul let Max go ahead of him.

They met one of the house's tenants, who looked rather perplexed at the four cops coming down the stairs as he came in the front door with an armload of groceries. “Anything I can do for you, officers?” He was a wisp of a man, older, with rough leathery skin.

Jack briefly explained why they were there. “Any idea who'd call in a bogus knife fight?”

The old guy was quick to respond. “That little fucker,” he spat. “There's this guy, a little soft in the head, I think. He keeps coming by. Wants Max to fight his dog. Came by earlier and I told him to go fuck himself.” He shook his head in disgust. “He's got himself this beautiful shepherd and it can't be much more'n six months old.”

Jack and Manny exchanged a knowing look. Joey Horner. The dog abuser Phil had told them about. Jack's hands unconsciously curled into fists. Jack was going to have to track this fucker down.

“See you met Max, though.” The tenant called Max over from where he had been leaning companionably against Jack's legs. He gave Max a quick ear rub, then shooed him upstairs. Max trotted up the stairs, seemingly eager to resume his interrupted nap.

“Max your dog?” Jack listened to the fading clicks of Max's nails on the stairs.

“Nope.” The old guy stepped onto the old porch with them. “He just showed up one day. Skinny as a twenty-dollar crack ho.” The cops cracked grins at the reference not many would understand. Except for Paul. He was keeping a watch behind them in case Max's friendliness had been a ruse. “We all pitch in for his food and walks. He's kind of the house mascot, I guess you could say.” He noticed Paul's wary expression. “Scary looking, though, ain't he?”

Paul gave the man an uneasy grin. “I'm just glad he didn't want dark meat.”

“5106, in 5111's area. At St. Lawrence Street and King Street East, behind the Mr. Big and Tall for an industrial accident. Male has fallen behind a truck. Time, 1149 hours.”

“Doesn't sound like much, does it?”

Jack shrugged non-committally, his hands never leaving the steering wheel. When they had worked together in the fall, Manny had driven most of the time, but Jack had requested to drive and Manny had reluctantly relinquished his position in the driver's seat. Manny didn't handle being a passenger very well. Jack didn't know if it was because he got bored or needed to be in control. Probably a bit of both.

Greene had paired them up for the second day in a row, no doubt so Jack could fix the problem that was Armsman. They were cruising Allan Gardens and Jack was being careful to keep the car on the paved paths.

He stopped to let a mother with a stroller pass before crossing the sidewalk into traffic. A light drizzle was falling, mixing with the salted road slush thrown up by every passing tire. The car's wipers screeched across the glass, smearing the gunk more than clearing it. The scout cars came with factory-grade wipers and Jack doubted this pair had ever been replaced.

“Miserable weather,” Jack commented needlessly as he sprayed the windshield yet again to clear it.

Manny craned a leery eye at the heavy grey clouds. “How's your head?”

Jack snickered. “Fine, but you probably just jinxed me. If I get a migraine, it's your fault.”

Manny perked up. “Does that mean I'll get to drive?”

“Your compassion is touching.”

“Hey, man, I just have your best interest at heart, that's all.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack gave his partner a skeptical look.

Manny grinned like a happy puppy. A very large, bald puppy.

The Mr. Big and Tall store sat on the southwest corner of King and St. Lawrence Streets. King was a four-lane road and a key route into and out of downtown for daily commuters, but for a few blocks it was lined with low-rise commercial and residential buildings, most of them with that older, red brick charisma. St. Lawrence was a very short but very wide street that went not much of anywhere. Its west side held an old three-storey factory that had been converted into lofts. Farther down the street was an old car lot, part junkyard and part mechanic shop.

The street's greatest feature was the multi-lane bridge that crossed its lower half, known as the Waterfall among the division's coppers. The bridge's underbelly was a desolate wasteland of hard-packed earth and grim, massive concrete support columns. Toss in a few burnt-out car husks, add some wretched tin and cardboard shacks, populate with filthy people dressed in rags and oozing sores and you had the perfect post-apocalyptic shantytown. It was a favourite movie-shoot location.

It was also the perfect foul weather meeting place for cops because there was a huge expanse of shelter. And it was during the rain that the reason for its nickname became evident. A major waterspout carried runoff from the bridge and in heavy rains could produce a thunderous waterfall. More than one unsuspecting rookie had been driven under the cascade with his passenger window locked open by his coach officer. At least that was the story according to Manny, who denied, rather fervently, that he had ever fallen prey to the cruel initiation. Jack had his doubts.

He pulled up behind an ambulance on King Street, right in front of the big man's clothing store. The drizzle had dwindled to nothing but left a damp chill in its wake and Jack shivered as he zipped up his jacket.

“A coffee would be good after this,” Manny suggested, unknowingly echoing Jack's exact thought.

The entrance to Mr. Big and Tall was on a diagonal corner at the intersection of King and St. Lawrence. The paramedics were helping an older male who slumped on the store's steps. There was no truck in sight.

Manny saw Jack looking around and pointed to the building's west end. “There's a cube van parked in the laneway beside the store. That might be the one he got hit by.”

“Can't be that bad if they moved him out front.” But as they approached the medics, Jack began to change his mind. The man wasn't that old, early fifties tops, but from the limp, boneless way he sat on the steps Jack thought he might have had a stroke. He looked like he might sag to the concrete if the medics weren't propping him up.

Can getting hit by a vehicle cause a stroke?

“Hey, guys. What have we got?”

One of the medics was a pretty blonde with dark smears under her eyes, another victim of shift work, Jack figured. She was kneeling in front of the man but looked over her shoulder at the two coppers. “Your guy is around back.”

Jack gestured to her patient. “This isn't the victim?” he asked, puzzled. Looking at the man's empty, slack face, Jack was more certain than ever he was a stroke victim.

She hushed Jack with a quick slash of her hand, then jerked her head in the man's direction, a very dark, unfriendly look on her face.

Jack held his hands in front of him compliantly and he and Manny backed off.

“What was her problem?” Manny asked, his voice hushed as they headed for the laneway.

“Fucked if I know.”

They turned down the laneway and saw a balding man huddled in a parka waiting for them by the front bumper of the cube van Manny had spotted. The laneway was short and wide and it T-boned with another laneway behind the building.

“Oh, thank God you're here, officers.” The balding man, his chubby face pale and worried, wiped his damp brow.

Sweating in this temperature? What's got everyone so spooked?

“The . . . the . . . the other . . .” He groped for a word. “The other gentleman is over there.” He swept his hand behind him, taking in the truck and both laneways. It was clear he didn't want to look.

What the fuck is going on?
“And the guy out front is . . . ?”

“That's Jim. He's one of our drivers. He was making a delivery when . . . when . . .”

“When the other guy fell behind the truck?” Jack offered and the man nodded enthusiastically, sweat flicking off his forehead. “Manny, you want to take down this gentleman's info? I'll go check on the other guy.”

“Sure thing, man.” Manny pulled out his memo book and lifted a quizzical eyebrow Jack's way. Jack pumped his shoulders in a quick shrug and headed for the back of the van.

The east-west laneway behind the store was much narrower than its intersecting neighbour and Jack could see why the driver would have had a hard time navigating the corner, especially if he was backing up. The five-ton cube van, its white paint grey with slush, sat on an angle, the driver's side rear bumper aimed at the lane's southern wall.

Jack realized the other building was the old, converted factory, its red bricks and looming windows darkened by decades of soot and pollution.
Sure hope they cleaned the inside before turning it into condos.

He squeezed between the van and the corner of the clothing store. He noted some heavy scrapes on the van's body, worn and dirt filled, and figured this wasn't the first time old Jim had had problems turning in the alley.

As Jack neared the rear bumper, he spotted a pair of legs on the ground, blue jeans and winter boots wet from the brief rain. The loose lace of one boot lay in a puddle.

Ambulance just left him here? Is he pinned or something?

“Hey, buddy, you — Jack stepped around the van and the words died in his throat. He could see the rest of the victim: a well-worn brown leather jacket, a jaunty green scarf knotted loosely around the neck. And nothing else.

Man fallen behind truck. Yeah, that's one way of putting it.

Jack could tell it was a man from the stubble on the neck and chin, but he was missing his head from the jaw up. No, not quite missing. It was there. Mostly. Just not the way it should be.

Blood, amazingly red among the grey slush, pooled where the head should have been. A flattened sack of skin and hair that used to belong to a living, breathing person was all that was left after the head was crushed between a brick wall and a steel bumper. Jack looked more closely and saw the bumper's grid-like pattern pressed into the skin of a squashed cheek.