The Arx (23 page)

For years he’d stood in the shadow of Frank Langer, through the academy, through their assignment to the same office of the Homicide Squad. During that time, he’d constantly been measured against Frank, and had always come up wanting.

After Frank’s spectacular meltdown and his own appointment to Lead Detective, Stocker thought his ship had finally come in. But the men still didn’t respect him. A few hangers-on poured flattery in his ears in the hope of currying some future favour, but he knew about the sneers and jokes behind his back.

When Frank had come back the first time, Stocker thought he’d handled it well. Frank was so humiliated he almost felt sorry for him. He’d toyed with the idea of acting then, but instinctively knew the time wasn’t right. After Frank’s second outburst, his unbelievably outlandish story, and behaviour that could easily be massaged into a charge of assault, he was sure that his request would fall on sympathetic ears.

It’s like Darwin said,
Stocker thought,
‘survival of the fittest’.

Everybody talked about Frank: what a great detective he was, how intelligent and insightful he was, what a great leader he was. Stocker was sick of it. No one said those things about him.

He had to admit that Frank had his good points, but he also had a fatal flaw. It had been incredibly lucky for Stocker that the Mastico affair had exposed that flaw to the world.

He may not be as smart as Frank, but Stocker knew how to work the system. More importantly, he had something Frank would never have – the killer instinct. Now he was in the catbird seat.
Carpe Diem,
he said to himself, pleased at remembering something of his Roman history from school,
Seize the Day
. He was going to make sure that Frank Langer’s career as a detective was over for good – that his nemesis would never set foot in another squad room.

He met with Harold Chase, the Deputy Chief Constable, in Chase’s office. Stocker had a tendency to dwell on his own misfortunes, but he had to admit he’d benefited from the occasional stroke of good luck in the course of his career. One of the most important had been his relationship with Chase.

They’d hooked up while Stocker was still at the academy, where Chase was on the board of directors. It had been one of those rare, magical moments when disaster had been transformed into triumph. Stocker was in big trouble; he’d been accused of cheating on an exam. In fact, he
had
cheated, but he’d proclaimed his innocence to the stars. The brass were preparing to expel him; he’d been allowed to meet with Chase in a last ditch attempt to plead his case.

He was pretty sure Chase hadn’t believed him any more than the others, but for some reason the director seemed to show an interest in him. When he arrived at Chase’s office, the man who held his career in his hands told him to close the door.

“Cadet Stocker,” Chase said, scowling gravely at Stocker the recruit, “these are serious charges. The board would be well within its rights to have you expelled immediately.”

“But I didn’t…” Stocker began.

“Come on,” Chase said. “There are cameras in the examination room.”

Stocker hung his head. It was over.

“On the other hand,” Chase said. Stocker looked up. “One could argue that you showed initiative.”

Stocker couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Chase leaned forward and looked Cadet Stocker in the eye. “I have the power to allow you to stay,” he said.

Stocker was ecstatic; maybe he’d survive this after all.

“I might have a use for someone with your ‘moral flexibility’,” Chase smiled and continued. “I can help with your career, but I might occasionally ask you to do things for me in return – things that some might not consider above board…”

“Anything,” Stocker said. It was his only hope.

“And of course,” Chase said, “no one would need to know about this relationship.”

Stocker nodded anxiously.

Chase scanned him up and down, the hint of smile curling around his lips.

“Congratulations, cadet,” he finally said. “I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, try not to do anything stupid. There’s a limit to my power to fix things.”

Chase had proved to be a valuable ally. Stocker was smart enough to call on his influence sparingly, only when he screwed up badly, which, unfortunately, had happened fairly often. Still, he was confident that Chase had gotten his share out of the deal. Stocker had done some pretty unsavory, illegal, even frightening, things for his boss, no questions asked.

As Stocker’s career had progressed, Chase’s had moved steadily upward as well. Stocker’s mentor had made it all the way to Deputy Chief Constable.

And someday,
Stocker
thought,
who knows?

Now he wanted to ask Chase for one more favour. This time it shouldn’t be a problem. Frank Langer was on his way out anyway; all Stocker wanted was to give him an extra little push.

“He was a good detective,” Chase said, organizing some papers in front of him. “Outstanding, in fact, from what I hear.”

Stocker smiled to himself once again at Chase’s obsession with neatness and order.

“It’s a shame,” Stocker said, shaking his head. “It breaks my heart to see what’s happened to him. He was a valued member of the team, but the Mastico thing did something to his mind. He needs help, and I hope he gets it, but my concern is for the department and the men under me. He’s come in twice now raving about kidnapped babies and conspiracies. He’s disrupted the unit. Morale has taken a hit.”

“Kidnapped babies?” Chase lifted his head.

Stocker laughed. “Yeah, real space-case stuff – a conspiracy to kidnap babies and replace them with other babies.”

Stocker had Chase’s attention – he got ready for his killing blow. “Now he’s gotten the idea that Arthur Dogan’s involved. Who knows where these delusions come from? He was raving about orgies and murders at Mr. Dogan’s mansion.”

Chase twitched, and, to Stocker’s surprise, for a brief moment looked like he would collapse. “Where did all this happen?” he asked. “Who else heard all this?”

“The first time, right in the squad room,” Stocker said. “Pretty well everybody heard. But that was just the dead baby stuff. The stuff about Mr. Dogan he said in my office a few days ago. There was just me and a few other guys. Nobody took him seriously. Frank came after me. A couple of the men had to escort him out of the building.”

Stocker smiled. As it happened, he was familiar with Arthur Dogan, and knew of the chummy connection between Dogan and Chase. Frank’s fate was sealed.

“And you want to get a restraining order against Frank Langer,” Chase said.

Stocker nodded. “And, I hate to say it about a former fellow detective, but I don’t believe Frank Langer is fit to be a police officer. In my opinion he should be relieved of his duties permanently, possibly even declared mentally incompetent.”

Chase put down the papers in his hands and looked at Stocker.

“Detective Stocker,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to recommend that you not pursue this matter any further. At the moment Mr. Langer’s behaviour is merely an irritant. If we were to take any kind of legal action there might be significant publicity. It could even make the papers. The Mastico case was high profile. It would look like we were hanging Frank Langer out to dry.”

Stocker was speechless. He hadn’t expected this. He’d been so sure, especially with the Dogan connection. Everywhere he turned, people were out to get him.

“I disagree, sir,” he said, feeling the warmth rise to his cheeks. “Frank is a danger to the morale of the department. He’s mentally unstable…”

“Leave it, Detective,” Chase said. “A word of friendly advice: forget about it.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Stocker said. “I think you’re making a big mistake.”

Stocker stood with his fists clenched at his sides.

“I don’t get it…” he blurted.

“Do we have an understanding, Detective?” Chase said, rising up and straightening the cufflink on his left sleeve.

Stocker was shaking, about to explode. He nodded and stared at the floor to hide his rage.

“Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention,” Chase said.

Stocker fumed as he stomped down the front steps of the Police Board building. He’d been certain that Chase would go along with his idea.

What the hell’s his game?
He thought.

Maybe it was time to go above his mentor’s head. There were people higher up who would listen to his story.

An Epiphany

The days following Frank’s humiliating ejection from the squad were a blur. His life descended into a downward spiral as he haunted an endless string of no-name dives on a quest to maintain a comforting level of medication in his brain.

Sometimes he’d wake up as he was being shaken before being kicked out of a bar. Sometimes he’d be lying in a trash-filled alley in the dark, sometimes in a cut-rate hotel room or a shelter.

Sometimes he’d sober up long enough to remember the horror that his life had become. He’d think about Gloria, or Grant Stocker, or Lawrence Retigo and Ricky Augustus. He’d stagger back to the next bar and repeat the exercise.

It was like all his progress with Rebecca had unraveled, like it had never happened. The recurring nightmares, which had diminished in the past few weeks, returned without warning to torture him. He couldn’t sleep, and that drove him to drink even more. The case was forgotten, but not Rebecca. No matter how wasted he got, he couldn’t blot her out of his memory.

He woke one night to the sound of trickling water. He lay on the ground in another nameless alley. Something hard dug into his back. His head throbbed and his body ached, but he managed to roll over to check out the sound. An old drunk, leaning on his shopping cart, was pissing on the wall about three meters away. Frank struggled to his knees. His clothes were filthy. He’d been lying on a pile of garbage.

The drunk noticed him, quickly shook off the remainder of his load, grabbed his cart, and hurried away. Frank staggered to his feet. He had no idea where he was, but judging from the spent condoms, discarded needles, and the stench of dried vomit he guessed it was probably somewhere on the Downtown Eastside. An empty bottle of Alberta vodka lay on the ground where he’d been passed out.

He checked his pockets. They were empty. His wallet and keys were gone. So were his shoes. He felt something crinkly in his right sock. He took the sock off and found three folded-up twenty-dollar bills.

He tried to walk, but only made it a few meters before collapsing again into another pile of garbage. He struggled again to his feet and fought to stay upright, teetering like a rotting tree in a windstorm. Again he collapsed and everything went dark.

Frank woke screaming from another nightmare and sat up, his trembling hands covering his face. He shook his head to clear it, and the sledgehammer clobbering the inside of his skull doubled in intensity. The pain was so bad he almost passed out. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall behind him. It was then that he realized that someone was pounding on it.

“Shut the fuck up!” a male voice yelled.

It took some time to understand where he was. Finally a vague memory surfaced: staggering to a broken down hotel, checking in using the cash from his sock, and passing out on the bed where he now sat.

It was morning. The light from outside filtered through the smoke-stained blinds on the windows. He stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, and cringed at the stained and torn-up couch in one corner of the room. He jumped when a cockroach scuttled across the crumbling bathroom tiles and into a crack under the sink.

His head was still pounding and he felt like puking. The stench of urine and vomit was overpowering. He swung his feet to the floor, checking for more roaches, and staggered to the bathroom.

He knelt with his head poised over the toilet just in time. The bile spewed from his gut. Even after all the pain of the past year, it was the first time in his life that he honestly wished he was dead.

He laughed bitterly as he thought about his blowout with Rebecca. How he’d slammed the phone down, vowing to pursue the case with or without her. Instead, here he was, pursuing oblivion – self-medicating big-time and puking his guts out alone in a no-name hotel.

Staggering to his feet and out of the bathroom, he checked the couch for bedbugs and bodily fluids, gave up, and flopped down for a cigarette. Scanning once again around the decaying room, he thought back on how he’d arrived at this point.

Why had it been so important for him to go on with the case, risking his own life and the lives of people close to him, and cruising for another breakdown? Was it guilt over Gloria’s death? He’d barely known her. Anyway, could he have prevented her suicide, even if he’d done all that he’d promised? Probably not.

He wasn’t a cop anymore, but crime investigation had once been his life’s work. It was almost like fate had contrived to place him, of all people, at a certain location, at a certain time, to witness the events that had set all this in motion.