Savage Rage (24 page)

“She went to Sunnybrook as well.” Manny plunked down next to him. “Shock or something.”

“I guess we're heading there to talk to her?” Jack tried to stand up.

“Relax, dude. Someone else is doing it. We need to get you to the station to clean up.”

“What happened to you?”

Manny had his jacket off and his right forearm had a wrapping of white gauze around it.

“Nothing. Don't worry about it.”

Jack grabbed him by the shirt. “What is it?” he insisted.

“Just a little burn, dude. Don't worry about it.”

“A burn? Aw, fuck. Did I do that when I threw the torch at you?”

“You didn't throw it
at
me, man. And besides, you had more important things to worry about. Buy me a coffee before we go in and we'll call it even.”

“That's either going to be one big coffee or that's a lot of bandage for a really tiny burn.”

Jack grabbed a plastic sheet from the ambulance to put over the car seat so he wouldn't contaminate it. As he crinkled onto the seat he asked Manny what he had told Sergeant Rose about his mitre.

“The truth,” Manny admitted, firing up the cruiser. “I threw it on the floor because it didn't work. I mean, she was dying, man. I needed to get through to radio and the shitty thing wasn't working. That's why I grabbed yours. And it didn't work until I got next to the window.”

Jack nodded in understanding. “Yeah, they're crap. Probably were already out of date when they were bought. Fucking cheap bastards.” Jack leaned his head back. “What did Rose say?”

“She suggested I was mistaken and that it slipped from my hand sometime during the stressful situation.”

“That's what I'd go with. If Greene finds out you deliberately broke it, he'll make sure you end up on the hook for the replacement cost.” Jack hoisted the car's mike. “5103, call radio.”

“Go ahead, 5103.”

“Mark us heading to the station for this report. 10-4?”

“10-4. 5103 to the station. You guys okay?”

Jack smiled a weary smile. “Yeah, we're good, dispatch. Thanks for asking, but could you do us a favour? I know the chief wants a helicopter, but if you see him could you tell him it'd be nice if we had some radios that worked?”

A small number of stars peered down, their gaze cold and indifferent. Their companions hid behind clouds, invisible in the night sky, as if they cared not to view the wretchedness that was humanity and had drawn a veil to hide the sight.

What a fucking day.

Jack sipped the cold cider and eased as far into the hot tub as he could while keeping his left arm out of the water — no submerging a new tattoo for three weeks — letting the heat melt away the day's stress. It did little for the memories, though. If he closed his eyes, all he saw was blood. So much blood. He kept them open, focused on the uncaring stars, watching uninterestedly as they slid from sight behind the clouds. He sipped the cider again.

“Hey, hon. I didn't expect to find you still up.” Karen slid the kitchen door shut and came down to the deck's lower level.

“Couldn't sleep, so I thought a soak might make me sleepy. Care to join me?” He splashed the water beside him. “Plenty of room for one more.”

The hot tub was a recent addition to the back deck. Jack had extended the two-tier deck to encircle the round tub, so instead of climbing up to get into the tub all they had to do was step down.

Karen sat on the edge, dangling fingers in the bubbling water. “It's getting a little late for a dip.”

Jack splashed the rationale aside. “No it's not. Come on in. You don't even have to bother with a bathing suit.”

She smiled at the flirtatious suggestion. Their house sat on the outside of the street's curve, which gave the backyard a wedge shape. The house was slightly behind the neighbours', adding to the privacy established by the high wood fences. If Jack had learned one thing in his time as a cop, it was that good fences made good neighbours.

He pushed off from the seat and bobbed over to Karen, resting his chin on his folded arms. “Come on. I promise I won't look while you're undressing.” He playfully covered his eyes, peeking out between the fingers.

Rather than answer, she pointed at the bottle of cider. “How many of those have you had?”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “Two or three.”
Guess I'm not going to get a show.
He drowned the bitter thought with another drink.
Bet Jenny would've stripped.
The idea startled him and also stirred something in his belly and lower. He chuckled and took another sip.

“You're drunk, Jack,” Karen accused.

Again he shrugged. If the stars didn't care, then neither did he. “A little buzzed, maybe. No big deal.”

“You have to go to work tomorrow.” She didn't have to remind him that he was usually up at 3:30 on day shift to hit the station's gym before work and, as a result, was normally in bed by nine at the latest.

“I know,” he said defensively. “I couldn't sleep.” He waded back to his original seat and settled in, keeping his left arm high and dry. “After the day I had . . .” he muttered before draining the last of the cider. He set the empty down, reached for another, thought better of it. Karen was right: he was drunk and tomorrow would be hard enough as it was.

“What happened today?” Concern laced her voice.

He snorted softly, shaking his head. “Doesn't matter. I'll be in soon.” He rested his head on a foam pillow and stared at the night sky.

“Jack, tell me,” she pleaded.

He felt like an ass for shutting her out. “Sorry, Kare. It was just a really . . . tough day.” He moved close to her, one hand resting on her thigh, the other cushioning his chin.

“Tell me.” She tenderly stroked his hair.

“Manny and I responded to an unknown trouble call today. We had no idea what it was. . . .” He gathered his thoughts. How to get across the enormity of what he had seen? “Kare, this woman — young, in her twenties — had cut off her own breasts and tried to cauterize the wounds with a blowtorch.”

Karen's hand stopped moving at his words. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Why?”

“We didn't know at first. Could only guess.” Jack's words were hushed, as light as the steam rising from the water. “The roommate — girlfriend, actually — told us that our victim had problems with her sexuality or being a lesbian or something like that. It was hard to get a clear story from her.”

“I wouldn't doubt it. Did she see her friend . . . cut herself?”

“No, thank God. She was outside the bathroom. Good thing, too; she's messed up enough as it is. Nineteen years old, living with a woman she met just three weeks ago.” Jack shook his head at the injustice of life. “She left home at fourteen to get away from an abusive father and kept moving from one asshole to another.”

“They abused her as well?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Then a few weeks ago she meets this woman and moves in with her.”

“Please don't tell me she abused her, too.” Karen had lived a sheltered childhood in Sudbury, a little town in northern Ontario and had seen little of life's ugliness since then. She was seeing it now, through his eyes.

“Doesn't sound like it,” he assured her. “But who knows? She could be keeping that from us to protect her friend, but I doubt it.”

“Did something happen today to . . .” Karen floundered, unable to find the words.

“To trigger the friend's self-mutilation?” Jack supplied, the cop in him tossing out the phrase he had typed repeatedly in the report. “We didn't find out until Jenny went to the hospital to speak with the roommate and we won't know for sure until the detectives can interview the victim. She was still in surgery and they'll have to wait until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“She'll live?”

“Yeah, but they weren't able to reattach the breasts. There was just too much damage. She'll have to undergo reconstructive surgery sometime later.”

“That poor woman.” Karen was silent for a moment. “How could she do it without passing out? I mean, the pain must have been incredible.”

“Oh, yeah. She's a big woman, muscular, and probably no stranger to pain, but the determination it must have taken.” Again Jack shook his head. “I can't imagine the self-loathing she must feel.”

“But why today? What happened?”

Jack sighed. How bad could things get? “She was raped.”

“Jack, no.” Karen was close to tears.

He could hear them in her voice. But she had to hear the rest; she had to know, to understand.

“Remember that Kayne guy I told you about? The one that was carving his initial into people's foreheads? It was him. From what we can gather from the roommate, Kayne ran into our victim, mistook her for a guy and beat the snot out of her. But when he found out she was a woman and not a guy, he decided to rape her instead of cutting her up.” He laughed, sick and bitter. “Quite the gentleman, eh? So, that's what triggered it, we think. Maybe she thought if she'd been a guy or didn't have the breasts he wouldn't have raped her.”

Jack felt better for having shared the tale and Karen had wanted to know why he was in the hot tub and drinking on a work night. Hell, it would have scared him if he'd been able to go to sleep sober.

The tub's jets clicked off, the timer run down and into the new silence Karen asked, “Why do you want to stay there?”

“Please, Kare, not that again. Not tonight.”

But she would not be dissuaded. “Don't you see what it's doing to you? You never used to drink on a work night. Never needed to. And now you're trying to drink yourself to sleep. The scars, the tattoo, the sleep problems, your temper. That division is changing you. It's killing the man I married.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic,” he protested, the first touches of anger flaring.

“It is. It's killing you.”

“Do you know what else happened today?” he snapped. He didn't give her a chance to answer. “I saved a life today. That woman would have bled to death if we hadn't been there. I saved her!” He stood up, too frustrated with her deliberate blindness to stay still.

“Someone else would have answered the call if you weren't there,” she countered, also standing up.

“But someone else didn't. We did.” He held his hands out, as if beseeching her to understand. “I held towels against her chest to slow the bleeding until the ambulance arrived. Even then she almost died. Don't you see, Karen? I saved her life. That's why I stay there.”

Karen's voice was cold. “You didn't save the one hit by the truck, Jack. You can't save everyone. But every day you're there you lose a piece of yourself.” She went inside, leaving Jack in the cold.

“Fuck,” he grumbled. He hit the button and the jets jumped to life, churning the water around him. He slid into the water and stared at the uncaring stars.

0742 hours

“He's an asshole. A freaking asshole.”

“We know, Jenny, we know.” Jack handed her a cup of coffee and steam wafted free into the cold, damp air as she pried the lid off. She wrapped both hands around the Tim's cup and tentatively sipped the hot liquid.

Tuesday of day shift, day four of seven. They were over the hump, on the down side of the shift and should have been feeling a renewal of spirit as days off drew within reach, but good old call-me-Staff-Sergeant-Greene-or-I'll-do-you had ruined the day minutes into parade.

Sergeant Johanson had finished reading the assignments and was into the day's alerts — a teenager with a drug history missing from his group home who was no doubt catching up on his habit, Jenny's purse snatch suspect from yesterday who had struck twice again and still no decent description and the marker of a car involved in a drive-by shooting in 52 Division last night — when Jenny had checked her hair. The French braid had passed Greene's inspection, but she must have thought it was too loose. Jack had watched in fascination as she had freed her waist-length hair and rebraided it in less than a minute. As simple as that and Greene had spent the next three minutes chewing her out in front of the platoon.

“You're right, Jack; he is a prick. If he was a woman, I'd call him a cunt.” Jenny sipped her coffee.

“Don't worry, Jenny. We all know he's an idiot.” Manny brightened a touch, offering what consolation he could. “We're almost done. Just two more wake-ups to go.” Manny was the type to cross the workday off once he got to the station.

Jack didn't close the book on the day until he wrote “Report Off Duty” in his memo book. He envied Manny's way of thinking.

And right now it seemed Jenny was firmly entrenched in Jack's view of the world. “As if embarrassing me wasn't enough, he documented me for having my hair down on parade.”

“That's bullshit!” Manny blurted, spilling hot chocolate on his hand. He sucked on his hand, then waved it in the cold air. “He can't do that without cautioning you first.” He turned to Jack, seeking reassurance. “Can he?”

Jack nodded solemnly. “He can. Technically, she wasn't prepared to go on the road during parade.”

“Jack, we have to do something,” Manny implored, trusting Jack to find a solution.

“I know, I know.”

All week Jack had pondered the problem that was Staff Sergeant Greene. The solution Johanson had offered on Friday — fuck, had he been back in the division only five days? — was a tried and true method of passive resistance used by coppers everywhere. If everyone stopped putting in numbers for tickets, tags or 208s, it sent a clear message to the higher-ups that something was not right on the platoon. In professional sports, if the team kept losing, the coach got fired. In a division, the staff sergeant got transferred. The plan could backfire, though: management would have an excuse to transfer the perceived troublemakers. Passive resistance took a long time and Jack knew the platoon needed to make a statement soon.

He leaned against the scout car and tried not to feel his friends' weighty gazes. Everyone on the platoon was looking to him to fix the problem and he didn't have a fucking idea.

What a perfect start to a shitty day.

Snow so wet it was almost rain dropped from a grey and miserable sky. A day meant for staying indoors with a fire and a good woman in your arms. Not a day for driving, especially in big rear-wheel-drive cars whose asses tended to slide out at the slightest change in direction on wet roads. But on the plus side, the snow-rain had a dampening effect on the radio: the dispatcher had no calls to hand out.

The three of them were at the Waterfall, out of the drizzling slush. The water pipe was quiet for the time being, but the bridge's underside resounded with the morning's rush-hour traffic. The noise did little to help Jack's thinking.

“That was quite the scene you guys had yesterday,” Jenny offered. “You've had one hell of a homecoming week, Jack.”

He snorted. “A paramedic said the same thing to me yesterday. Did the victim say anything at the hospital? Last we heard, she wasn't talking.”

Jenny sadly shook her head. “I didn't have much of a chance to talk to her before they took her in for surgery and she wouldn't tell me anything. Not even her name. I had to get all her info from Sherry the roommate.”

“Did the roommate know anything that could help us?”

Again a negative shake. “Just what I added to your report. So, unless the victim changes her mind, we've got squat.”

A silence slipped over them once more as they all fell into their own thoughts. Jack couldn't fathom the hatred, the sheer loathing, the victim must have had for herself to take a butcher's knife to her breasts. And then try to cauterize the wounds with a blowtorch. Next time he ran into the CIT unit, he'd tell Aaron, the psych nurse, about her and see if he could shed some insight on it.

“I guess I shouldn't bitch so much about Greene; life could be a lot worse.” Jenny held her cup aloft. “Here's to a speedy recovery and a better life for that poor girl.”

They touched cups and drank, then Jenny hugged herself and shivered. From the cold or memories of yesterday, Jack didn't know and doubted she would like to say. Sometimes it was better to jam the bad memories behind the cop mask and deal with them later.

“I know I said I shouldn't bitch, but I'm still pissed off about Greene. I can't believe he documented me.”

“You're going to fight it, right?” Manny asked.

“Damn right I am.” She blew out a frustrated breath. “If Greene wants to treat us like children, why doesn't he just spank us and get it over with?”

Jack wagged a cautionary finger at Manny. “Don't start visualizing, grasshop —” A smile flickered over Jack's lips, then settled in and grew to a face-splitting grin.

Manny's eyes widened with elation. “You've got an idea, don't you? What is it?”

“Get everyone down here, Manny. We need to have a platoon meeting.”

“I'm not doing it.”

“What do you mean you're not doing it?” Six pairs of eyes stared at Borovski in silent accusation. It was Paul who spoke.

Boris wilted under the scrutiny but found the courage to stand his ground. “I don't want to do it.” He searched for a friendly face, some sympathy, but found none. “It's stupid,” he added lamely.

Six police cars and seven officers — Jack and Manny were once again the only two-man unit in the division — were grouped under the bridge. Karl Morris and Gerry “Double G” Goldman had joined the group. They were the entire head count for the early portion of day shift and Jack hadn't seen much of them this week. It was amazing how starting an hour earlier could offset you from the rest of the platoon for the whole day. But they were part of the shift and had braved the crappy weather and roads to join the meeting. The drizzling wet snow had turned to rain and the waterfall was gurgling to life.

Jack could understand Boris's reluctance. In his head, Jack's idea involved a shocking display of platoon unity. When he'd said it aloud to Jenny and Manny, it had sounded stupid and childish. But they had both jumped on it eagerly and Manny had texted the other cars to join them. Jack was surprised that Boris had showed up until Manny explained he had told Boris there was a box of Timbits to share.

Suckered in by the promise of free doughnuts. Could the guy be any more stereotypical?

“It's
because
it's stupid that it's the perfect thing to do,” Jack explained. The other coppers nodded in agreement. “Come on. Even Morris and Goldman are in on it.” The early shift officers would parade at six, as usual, then return to the station to join the “rebellion” at seven.

“You gotta do it, man,” Morris chided. “If I can do it, so can you.” Morris was a human scarecrow with a shock of red hair and long, gangly legs.

“Forget him, Sean.” Sean was Borovski's first name. Like everyone at the Waterfall, Jenny was being careful not to use the detested nickname Boris. “If anyone should be bitching about this, it's me and I'm all for it.”

Boris studied Jenny with his little piggy eyes. Jack could see the image developing behind the eyes, but even that visual wasn't enough to sway Boris. He hooked his thumbs behind his gun belt — his belly flab pushed out in the gaping expanse between belt and the bottom of his external vest carrier — and shook his multiple chins and jowls defiantly.

“I'm not doing it.” He thrust a sausage of a finger at Jack. “And you can't make me.” Apparently, even Boris regarded Jack as the platoon leader, but unfortunately the position was honorary and carried no actual authority.

“So you're just going to show up on parade tomorrow like normal?”

Boris's smile was greasy. “Yup. But the rest of you can go right ahead with your little demonstration.”

You fat fuck.
Jack burned with the desire to smash that grin off Boris's pudgy lips. He kept the tension from his voice. “We need the platoon to stand together. If it isn't all of us, then it means nothing.”

Boris shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Like I care.” He dismissed his fellow officers with a flick of his fat fingers and headed for his car.

“For fuck's sake, Boris,” Jack snapped. “Be a team player for once in your life.”

Boris had his car door open but slammed it shut. He stalked back to the group, the force of his steps sending ripples through his fat, from thighs to chins. For the second time, he shoved a finger in Jack's face. “I am a team player!” he shouted, spittle spraying from his lips. “Who keeps this platoon's numbers at the top of the division, huh? Me, that's who!”

Morris spoke. “And while you're doing radar, the rest of us are covering the calls in your area.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

Boris whirled on Morris. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

Jack figured his team player comment had struck a buried nerve; Boris had never before shown such fervour. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. For the first time, the angry, hurt child that was Sean Borovski was pushing free of the man that was Boris.

“Sean,” Jack said softly, “we need you.”

“Uh-huh. No way! And if you try to make me, I'm going straight to the staff sergeant.”

“With what? What we're talking about here?”

Boris laughed and the child was smothered. “Don't forget I saw you beat that guy up in the stairwell. Oh, yeah. You thought I forgot about that? Well, I didn't and I'll tell Greene all about it. How'd you like to have some assault charges against you? Huh, tough guy?”

Boris stomped away, the hotdog-like rolls of fat on the back of his head quivering with each step.

So much for platoon unity.

Paul stopped Boris dead in his tracks with two words. “Amber Smith.”

Boris slowly turned. “What?”

Paul was smiling, but the smile wasn't friendly. “You forget we arrested her a few weeks ago? And how your hands got a little too personal during the pat down?”

“That's a lie!” Boris blustered, but the colour had suddenly drained from his face.

Paul wasn't finished. “I imagine I could persuade Amber to lodge a complaint regarding sexual assault.”

“Like they'd listen to some crack whore.” The strength was gone from Boris's voice.

Jack thought Boris was close to whimpering.

“I imagine my recollection of the events might mesh closer with her version than yours.” Paul crossed his arms over his massive chest and waited.

“Professional Standards, dude. Those guys are nasty,” Manny added, shoving the verbal knife in a little deeper.

Jenny took hold of the knife and buried it completely. “Forget Professional Standards, Boris. Sexual assault. That's Special Investigations territory.”

Mention of the cop-crucifying civilian watchdog unit whipped the last resistance from Boris. Meekly, he plodded to the group. He studied the unyielding faces and knew he was beaten. He sighed. “What should I wear?”

Oak Street apartments — Regent Park's dirty little cousin. Technically not a part of the park, the three high-rises were separated from the government housing complex only by the four lanes of River Street and were therefore seen as an extension of it and its drug-infested reputation. Guilt by association.

Oak Street, looking more like a glorified driveway, ran east off River and looped back on itself, resembling a lower-case b that had smoked too much crack and fallen on its back. The three apartment buildings sat in a triangle around the loop. A single tree, looking as tired and ailing as the dogshit-choked grass, held court over the tiny island in the centre of the driveway.

The rain had petered out with the end of morning rush hour, but dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, threatening more rain. Manny eased the scout car to a stop in front of 220, the tires scrunching on deposits of winter road sand made muddy by the morning's rain. He was trotting toward the lobby doors before Jack was even out of the car.

“Slow down, Manny. It's just a crack house,” Jack said, giving a verbal jerk on Manny's leash.

Manny waited impatiently by the door. “But if we hurry they might still be there.”

Jack smiled, amused by his friend's enthusiasm. Four years in 51 might have hardened Manny as a cop, but they hadn't even dented his boyish spirit. He liked to tell people he got paid to play cops and robbers for real.

They were responding to a simple noise complaint, people yelling, possible sounds of a fight, but the apartment was well known to the residents and security as a crack house. Manny was hoping to grab a pinch to finish off the day. The lock on the inner lobby door was broken — were they ever not broken? — and they went in.

A scrawny mess of a human was sitting on a lobby bench reading the newspaper. Or examining the pictures. He looked up when the door opened and a flash of fear darted across his face. It was quickly gone, and he held his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn't do it,” he declared, grinning and showing a set of badly stained teeth. His army jacket hung loosely on his emaciated frame, a sleeve flapping like a loose sail as he wiped his crooked nose.