Do or Die (2 page)

Green raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Perhaps sensing trouble, Jules moved in. He took a thin file from his desk and held it out. “A student was stabbed in the University of Ottawa library last night. Young man by the name of Jonathan Blair.”

After fourteen years in Criminal Investigations, very little surprised Green any more, but murder in a university library was
a first. The second eyebrow shot up before he could stop himself.

“Marianne Blair's son,” Lynch cut in. “Name ring any bells?” Obviously it was supposed to, but it didn't. And it was really too early in the morning to play one-upmanship with a pit bull. Especially before even one cup of coffee. Without much hope, Green glanced around Jules' office. As usual, not a pencil out of place, not a hint of human habitation. And of course, no coffee.

“Should it?” he grumbled.

Lynch smirked, but Jules was faster. “Marianne Blair is the head of the Lindmar Foundation, a major funding organization that underwrites charities, research, the arts.”

Ah! Suddenly the fog began to lift. One of Chief Shea's famous “connections”. The Police Chief had come to power the new, corporate way, attending management courses and cultivating connections that could serve him well on the way up. Now, at the apex of his career, he had a fair network of expectant friends. Among them, no doubt, the rich and generous Marianne Blair.

“Mrs. Blair is understandably very upset,” Jules was continuing in his dry monotone. “When she called this morning, I told her we would be assigning our best men.”

Green eyed Lynch warily. “Is there anything I should know?” Lynch held his gaze a moment then broke into a smile and leaned back in his chair, hitching his pants up. “I'm just an observer in this, Mike. This is Adam's and your show. You know my policy on non-interference. But I just wanted to let you know who we're dealing with here. This is a high profile case. The spotlight will be on the department. If we don't deliver, Marianne Blair will make enough noise to be heard at City Hall, and I'm sure none of us wants that. I want you to know I have every confidence in you—that's what we made
you an inspector for, isn't it? To handle tough cases. Hell, it's the only thing you're good at. I know you won't let us down. And it goes without saying that you'll have the full cooperation of the force. Anything you need, you let me know.”

Green fingered the file before him, trying to figure out the hidden agenda. He hated politics and had no talent for it, preferring to plough straight ahead like a bloodhound on the scent. Yet now he had the sense of waiting for some other shoe to drop. Lynch could have applied his pressure without having to meet him personally. Jules knew—in fact all the brass knew—that Green loved the thrill of the hunt. Unlike most managers, he preferred the trenches and when he took over a case, he drove himself and everyone else on the case to exhaustion till it was solved. This little pep talk wasn't necessary. There must be something more at stake.

He sent out a feeler. “What does it look like so far?” “No idea,” Jules replied. “There were no eyewitnesses, no murder weapon, no known motive. The victim was twenty-four years old, single, lived with his mother. Just a hardworking graduate student, according to her.”

Lynch waved a casual hand as if to dismiss all other speculation. “My guess is it was some undesirable who went to the library to meet someone else, and the Blair kid was unlucky enough to get in the way. That's where I'd start looking, Mike. And I'd cooperate with university security on this. They know the territory. I wouldn't bother too much with the university staff.”

Green raised his head in surprise. “But I certainly have to—”

“Check it out, sure. I'm just saying be careful with the university types. Remember, this isn't a back alley someplace. These are educated, liberal-minded people who know their rights. And their lawyers.”

Green chilled. “I'll handle it the way I handle all cases. I'll ask the questions that need to be asked.”

Lynch raised a soothing hand. “Of course you will. But I know your reputation for thoroughness, Mike. Some might say bull-headedness. Ask your questions. Just don't ask questions you don't need to ask. Don't ruffle more feathers than you need to.”

Finally, Green thought he heard the echo of the other shoe. He feigned confusion. “You don't want me asking too many questions of people at the university?”

The pit bull stiffened slightly. Beside him, Jules had turned a faint shade of fuchsia. “I didn't say that. I just want you to remember they're on the same side as us. Everyone wants to find the killer. Just you focus on that, and don't make things more complicated than they need to be. The sooner this is cleaned up the better, so let Adam know what you need to do the job.”

I need the freedom to operate, Green wanted to shout at him. I need to know what the fuck is going on. A major homicide case has just been handed to me. New, hot, begging to be pursued. And here I am, playing twenty questions with you.

But for the sake of his wife and new baby, he counted to ten and slowly raised his eyes.

“Ten men, for starters.” “You can have thirty.”

Green shook his head. “If I need gofers, I'll let Superintendent Jules know. But for now I'll take ten good detectives from the Major Crimes Squad, including Sergeant Sullivan and Detective Gibbs.”

The Deputy Chief nodded. “Sergeant Sullivan is already on the case. He took the initial call. Anything else you want?”

“The rest of the details I can work out with Superintendent Jules.” Green picked up the file and pushed his chair back.
“Now, if there's nothing else, sir, I should get started.”

*    *    *

Green had barely begun the file when Jules walked into his office five minutes later, flicking lint from his jacket as if to cleanse himself.

“Thank you, Michael—” he began but got no further. Green thrust the file aside.

“Adam, I can't work like this! I'm not allowed to ask too many questions, I'm supposed to defer to university security! Since when! How the fuck am I supposed to solve the crime?”

“Don't worry. The Deputy Chief just has to keep an eye on City Hall.”

“You mean on the Chief's pals! In case I probe too deeply into their love lives or their bank accounts. Either he trusts me and lets me do my job, or he lets the staff sergeant handle it just like any other case. I won't have him second-guessing me at every turn!”

Jules drew his lips in a thin line. “Michael, Lynch would never obstruct a criminal investigation. He may be more…pragmatic than you or I, but he's not unethical. He's seen the preliminary reports. The crime needs you and he knows it. Forget about him. Just proceed as you usually do.” He hesitated and gave his dry approximation of a smile. “Well, try to follow procedure a little more often. He'll be watching.”

Green was silent. Adam Jules had always been his greatest ally, encouraging him up the promotional ladder so that he would have the freedom to set his own course and running interference for him when his quest took him outside the bureaucratic box. But the name “Jules” no longer commanded the same respect and influence in the bigger pond of the new
force, and Green could see defeat and disillusionment creeping into the man's eyes.

“I'll do my best, Adam,” he replied. “Kick me if you see steam starting to come out my ears.”

Jules' smile faded. “For all the good that's ever done. Just solve the case for me, Michael. Brian is waiting for you outside.”

*    *    *

Sergeant Brian Sullivan was a former high school linebacker who took up most of the free space in Green's little office, particularly when he paced. His blonde hair stood in tufts, and his square jaw was set.

“What a fuck-up!” he exclaimed as soon as he shut the door. “Everything that can go wrong in a homicide case went wrong in this one, and who does it turn out to be? Some friend of the goddamn Police Chief!” His expression changed abruptly as he registered Green's suit, and he burst out laughing. “You look like a bargain basement shoe salesman!”

“Don't start.” Green grinned as he stuffed the reports back in the file and pocketed his keys. “Let's go over to the crime scene. You can fill me in on this stuff as you drive.”

Outside, they found themselves in the crush of the morning rush hour. The June sun glared off chrome and glass, making Sullivan squint as he bulldozed the unmarked blue Taurus into the traffic. In front of them, traffic oozed along the elevated Queensway which bisected the city. Exhaust fumes shimmered in the rising heat. Another scorcher, Green thought, wondering how the city's tempers, frayed by unemployment and government cutbacks, would handle yet another stress. He glanced at Sullivan, who was fuming at a red light.

“So tell me about the fuck-up.”

Sullivan rubbed his face wearily. “First of all, some moron sounded the fire alarm, so when the fire trucks arrived, there was near-panic on the main floor. Firemen rushing in, students trying to get out. Any hope our suspect was still in the building went up in smoke. Then the security guard who called in the 911 only asked for an ambulance, said someone was hurt. Didn't say stabbed. Didn't know, apparently. So the dispatcher sent a routine patrol unit along with the fire ambulance. One constable—a rookie who hardly even remembered the procedure book. He tried his best. I mean, the victim was still alive, so I know his first concern had to be…anyway, he got there about two minutes after the firemen, who were giving CPR, so he rushed in to help them. But meanwhile, they trample all over the scene, they move the victim. Nobody takes pictures, nobody secures the scene, a whole bunch of other people—firemen, rubberneckers, university security—come up in the elevators and get in the way.”

The light turned green. Sullivan squealed the tires, accelerating around the corner, only to stop short at the next light. He sighed.

“Finally one of the firemen takes charge and, thank God, he has a brain. He asks the rookie if Ident's been called, and the kid says Jeez, I forgot, and he starts remembering his guide book. So he calls for back-up. I get a call and so does Ident. Lou Paquette was on—one lucky break. There were a dozen cops on the scene when I got there, but the paramedics took off to the General with only one patrol officer. Nobody thinks to take fingernail scrapings or bag the hands. Nobody thinks to stop the emerg doctors from tossing all his clothes into a bag. We got them back, but, oh Jesus, Mike, they've got to be contaminated as hell.”

Green had listened to this rambling tirade without
interruption, but now he looked across at his colleague, who had stopped for air. In the silence, their police radios chattered in mindless bursts which they no longer heard. Brian Sullivan looked beyond tired. His normally ruddy Irish farm boy face was white with fatigue, and new lines were beginning to pull at the corners of his eyes. It seems like yesterday we were rookies together, Green thought, but look how this job has battered him.

Green's first wife had stomped off in disgust with their baby in tow after only three years of marriage, leaving him without ties or obligations for nearly ten years, but Sullivan had married his first love, had three children in rapid succession, and now struggled to keep his life compartmentalized. He was too much of a professional to bring his home worries onto the job, but sometimes, as now, the stress seeped through. As they inched over the Pretoria Bridge across the Rideau Canal, stuck behind a line of cars doing an illegal left turn onto Colonel By Drive, he drummed his fingers and cursed. Green wondered what else was eating at him.

“Does it get any worse?” he asked gently.

“Can it get worse?” Sullivan countered. “Put it this way. It doesn't get better. I leave Lou Paquette and his Ident team to get what they can from the mess in the library, and I rush off to the hospital, but the victim's in surgery. No instructions to anybody to listen for dying declarations. And worse, the guy has no ID on him. Not even a library card!”

“His wallet was probably lifted.”

“I figured that.” Sullivan broke off long enough to accelerate around a red Honda waiting to turn left. The car beside him blasted its horn, and he raised his middle finger. “Unless of course it fell out while the guys were moving him. Anything is possible in this fiasco. But as a result, we didn't
know who the John Doe was. I ran a description through missing persons and checked recent reports, but it was only a bit past midnight by then, and who the hell reports a fully grown man missing at that hour? Probably not even at four a.m. Anyway, the victim comes out of surgery and into recovery, but he hasn't regained consciousness and it doesn't look like he will in a hurry, so I post a uniform by his bed and I go back to the scene. No—first I checked his clothes. Expensive, so I know the guy's not starving. Conservative, so I figure he's not a punk, but that's no surprise. He was stabbed in the Shakespeare section of the university library. Not your average street punk's stomping ground. That's why dispatch screwed up so badly on the 911 call, by the way. Sergeant Jones says ‘Who the hell expects a stabbing in a library, for God's sake! If the call had come from a parking lot in the Byward Market, we'd have sent four experienced teams down there right away. Not one poor rookie.' And it's not the kid's fault, after all. There was a lot of blood around, and he just wanted to save the boy's life. I'd have forgotten all the procedural shit myself fifteen years ago.”

Sullivan pulled the Taurus to a halt behind a police van near the entrance to the library, and the two jumped out. A police officer was posted at the entrance to the library and another at the elevators. One elevator had been commandeered for use in the investigation, and the fourth floor button had been taped on the other elevators. Students gathered in whispering clumps, gawking curiously.