Safe at Home Page 8

  “Like what?”

  “You could give a press conference about your sexuality, then stop talking about it. Or you could have Hugh Marsh set up interviews off the field. Oh, Jesus. Marsh. He’s going to be freaked.”

  “I wish I could just talk to you and get it over with.”

  “It’s not that easy. But you have every right to carve yourself out some privacy. I think you would be happier if you just talked baseball when you’re at the ballpark. I don’t know why reporters wouldn’t respect that. If you stick to it, they won’t have any choice. Then you can decide what other interviews you’re going to do.”

  “Maybe one press conference just to confirm the story, Joe,” said Sandy. “Then you can do what Kate suggests. It’s all spelled out here in the story, anyway.”

  “It all depends upon how much of a symbol you want to become. It’s up to you. There will be no shortage of people to talk to. You’ll hit the big time. Johnny Carson. Oprah, even. It’s your choice.”

  “I’m not doing this for the publicity,” Joe said. “I’m doing it because I have to, but then I want to forget about it.”

  “The best thing you can do is keep on playing as well as you have been and not show that the attention is getting to you,” I said. “That’s going to shut up a lot of the criticism, anyway. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “I can’t tell now, but I feel like making this decision has taken all the pressure off me. I feel great. But I don’t know what I’ll feel like after.”

  “I’ll be here,” Sandy said.

  “You know if you want to talk about it, I will too,” I said. I don’t usually form friendships with ballplayers, but Joe’s case was special.

  “What will be, will be,” said Joe, standing up. “I’d better get to the ballpark.”

  I gathered up my things and headed for the door.

  “I won’t be around tonight or tomorrow, Joe,” I said, “but I’ll be there early on Saturday.”

  “Oh, yes, you’ll want to enjoy that scoop, won’t you,” he said, smiling.

  “And you know it,” I laughed.

  Chapter 14

  I stood in a corner at the cop shop party, surrounded by noise and strangers, watching Andy make his way through the crowd to the impromptu bar set up in one of the glass-walled interview rooms. He was stopped several times along the way, usually by women.

  I love watching him, especially when he doesn’t know it. Just looking at him arouses me. After spending six years with the same man, I had forgotten about the lustful yearning that goes with the beginning of an affair, but it’s nice to find it again in what is popularly considered creaking middle-age.

  The party wasn’t bad. One of the advantages of being a baseball writer is that it’s never difficult to get a conversation going with strangers, especially men. Most of them think a woman sportswriter is a bit like a roller-skating duck, so amazed are they that something in a skirt knows more about jock stuff than they do, which gives an interesting edge to the conversation.

  The more macho types try, and fail, to dazzle me with sports trivia. Then there are the men, and I have known some of them rather well, for whom I am a fantasy come true: a woman they can go to bed with and talk baseball afterwards.

  My reveries were interrupted by a beefy guy who might as well have had “cop” tattooed on his forehead. He had a closely trimmed moustache and piggy little close-set eyes. Some would call him handsome, himself included, I’m sure, but he looked too mean for my taste. He was dressed in an expensive sports jacket which strained slightly at the seams, and he had a smirk on his face.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the lady-reporter hotshot detective. Are you here to solve our latest murders for us?”

  This guy had obviously been to the Academy of Snappy Opening Lines. I decided to duck the hostility with as much charm as I could muster.

  “I’m just here as a guest of Staff Sergeant Munro. Your new offices are very nice. You must be pleased with them.”

  “Pretty sexy stuff, eh? Not like the hole we used to work in.”

  The homicide department had just moved into the new post-modern police headquarters on College Street, an amazing edifice of polished red granite and blue steel that looked as if it should house the head office of Canada’s Wonderland or McDonald’s, not Serve and Protect, Inc. Inside, it was all computer-sleek and tasteful.

  The homicide department on the third floor had no sense of drama or importance. It was just a medium-sized room furnished with modern, slick work cubicles, so anonymous and lacking in character that it might as well have been an insurance office. The only signs of the deadly and dangerous nature of the business conducted here were cardboard boxes full of files piled in the corners, with the names of notorious crimes scrawled on them in black magic marker.

  “Yes, you must be glad to have moved,” I said, looking for Andy over the guy’s shoulder. He edged closer, slopping the drink in his little plastic glass.

  “But you’re not here for the decor. You’ve got a thing for cops now, don’t you? What’s the matter, get tired of those big nigger dicks down at the ballpark?”

  It’s not often that I’m at a loss for words, but all I could do was try to keep my jaw from dropping. He went on.

  “But if you’re looking for action, what are you doing with that faggot Munro? You look like you could use some of my kind of loving. I bet you like a little of the rough stuff. Slow and hard and rough. How about it?”

  I could feel my face turning red.

  “Excuse me,” I said and began to move away, but he had his hands on the wall on either side of me. I was considering the etiquette of a knee to the groin in this particular social situation when Andy arrived.

  “I see you’ve met Sergeant Flanagan,” he said. The beefy cop stepped back and Andy handed me my glass.

  “We hadn’t exchanged names,” I said.

  “Bob and I joined the force at the same time,” Andy said, putting his arm over the lout’s shoulder. “We’ve followed in each other’s footsteps ever since. How’s it going, pal?”

  “Can’t complain, Andy. Nice little lady you’ve got here. I was just telling her what a lucky guy you are.”

  With a hearty-guy slap on the back, he was gone.

  “Who is that scumbucket?”

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. Just a bit rough around the edges. He’s a good cop.”

  “He’s not much of a human being,” I said. “He was coming on to me.”

  “That just shows he’s got good taste,” Andy said, kissing me on the cheek. “Look, finish your drink. We’re going out to dinner with Jim Wells and his wife.”

  He gulped what was left in his glass and waved Jim Wells, his partner, in our direction. He came right over with a pleasant-looking woman in tow.

  “Kate, you know Jim, but I don’t think you’ve met Carol,” he said. “I’m just going to say goodbye to Lorna and we’ll be on our way.”

  Seething, I made small talk with the Wellses while Andy went to embrace a hugely pregnant woman with a rock-star mane of curls. Despite her shape, she was wearing a miniskirt and patterned stockings. Flanagan joined them, fondled her belly, and said something that made them all roar with laughter. Andy was still smiling when he came back.

  “Where to, folks? Anyone feel like Greek food? We can head into Kate’s neighbourhood, then back to her place for a drink afterward.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. First, he buddies up with some pig who has just been speaking filth to me. Then he makes dinner arrangements with his partner without consulting me. Now he volunteers my home for his party.

  “Sounds great,” Wells said. “Me for some souvlaki.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. Andy put his arm around me when we got outside. I imitated a block of ice. Jim and Carol were at the curb, waiting to hail a cab.

 
“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Perceptive.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I hissed.

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. There’s no problem. Look, they’ve got a cab.”

  I chattered on the way over, determined not to let my mood show. I’m middle-class enough to loathe fighting in public. I must have been convincing. Andy soon relaxed.

  We got out of the cab at the Carrot Common, the health-food mall, complete with yoga centre, organic butcher, and New Age crystal store.

  “I’ve heard of this place,” Carol said. “It’s supposed to be really great.”

  I took her on a tour of the windows of the closed stores. We both gawked at the kids’ clothes arrayed to tempt double-income parents looking to make a status statement through their toddlers. There was a sale on. A sleeper for a six-month-old, in tie-dyed black, was reduced to a mere $65.

  “Regularly ninety-four,” I pointed out.

  “I’ll take a dozen,” Carol said. I was beginning to like her.

  Jim and Andy were waiting for us in front of the crystal store.

  “I don’t get it,” Jim said. “This store is full of rocks. They’re kind of pretty, but what are they for?”

  “Channelling,” I said. “Getting in touch with past selves or higher truth or something like that. It’s hocus-pocus, just like when we were hippies, but we didn’t go in for the high-priced accessories.”

  “I was never a hippie,” Jim said.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  There was the usual lineup at the Astoria and it wasn’t warm enough for the Omonia terrace to be open yet, so we went to the unfashionable south side of the Danforth where the food is just as good and you don’t have to wait for it.

  We ordered a bottle of retsina and settled in with the menus.

  “I saw you talking to God’s gift to sex-starved women, Kate,” Carol said. “Did Bob Flanagan pour on his famous charm?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “What’s that guy’s story, anyway?”

  “It’s not a nice one,” Jim said. “He was a good cop, but can’t control his temper. He beat up a suspect last year—an innocent suspect as it turned out—and got suspended. Now he’s back on the force, but he’s doing community relations work. He can’t stand it.”

  “He’s getting into the booze, too,” Andy said.

  “Community relations? That boor?” I said, amazed. “What do they have him doing, talking to battered women’s groups?”

  “Worse,” Jim said. “He’s doing school assemblies with Honker the talking Police Car.”

  Carol snickered, and I joined her.

  “Okay, it’s funny,” Andy conceded. “But it’s killing Bob. And he is a good cop.”

  “What was he doing at the party tonight if he’s not at homicide anymore?”

  “He can’t stay away, I guess,” Jim said. “He hangs around whenever he’s off duty. And Lorna wanted him there. They’re buddies.”

  The harried waitress arrived to take our orders. When she left, the men changed the subject.

  “Did you go and talk to that guy at U of T this afternoon?” asked Jim.

  “Harold Josephson, yes. He didn’t have much new.”

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “A psychology prof. He’s doing a study on mass and serial murder,” Jim explained.

  “It was a pretty useless conversation,” he continued. “If our guy is a true serial killer, we’re going to have to wait for him to slip up or hope for some incredible piece of luck.”

  “Why is that?” Carol asked.

  “Because serial killers tend to hit at random,” Andy said. “It’s a crime without a motive, except in the mind of the killer. There’s no previous connection between them and the victims. So digging around in the kids’ histories isn’t going to help. Neither is looking for a connection among them. The connection is only in the killer’s mind.”

  “What did he say about the letter?” asked Jim.

  “He thinks it’s the real thing, too.”

  “Is that the one that came in this morning? What did it say?”

  Andy shot me a quick warning look.

  “You know better than to ask me that.”

  Yeah, fuck off and die to you, too. Andy returned his attention to his trusted colleague.

  “It might be a break. It means that he’s reaching out, looking for attention.”

  “We can hope. But didn’t Josephson tell you that these guys are smarter than the average crook?”

  “Yes, but we’re smarter than the average cops.”

  The two exchanged smiles and clinked glasses.

  “I read an article about serial killers once,” Carol said. “They seem to have quite a few things in common. Isn’t there some sort of psychological profile you can work up?”

  “That’s why I spent three hours with Josephson this afternoon. There are some behaviour patterns that have emerged through the study of people like Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy, who killed all those boys in Chicago, but they aren’t obvious. One of the frustrating things about serial killers is that many of them are apparently completely normal. It’s only after they have been caught that we find out that they fit the profile.”

  “Bundy was charming.”

  “Right,” her husband agreed. “He was so damn normal no one suspected him. That’s the bitch of it.”

  “What about the child molesters?” Carol asked. “Do serial killers usually start their careers with other types of crime?”

  “Our guy might or might not have a record,” Andy said. “But I would bet he hasn’t. This son-of-a-bitch is not going to make our lives any easier by wandering around schoolyards, foaming at the mouth and offering little boys candy. That’s why it’s so goddamned frustrating.”

  He stared gloomily at his wine before sloshing it down in one gulp. He refilled his glass without noticing anyone else’s. Carol Wells leaned across the table in the sudden morose silence and touched my hand.

  “Get used to it, Kate. You are seeing what happens to ordinarily sweet human beings when they are in the middle of a case. Don’t take it personally.”

  That got the men’s attention. They exchanged a glance, then laughed.

  “Right, we’re not on duty now,” Jim said, filling the other glasses at the table. “Let’s talk about something pleasant.”

  Chapter 15

  Once we had changed the topic of conversation, the evening improved. We talked about trips we had taken, about journalism, about the Wells’s kids. It was past 11:00 when we left the restaurant and pleasant enough outside to stroll the Danforth, checking out the gift shop windows full of the kind of horrid, tacky statuary that must clutter up the apartments of half the Greek newlyweds in town. These shops are a reassuring counterpoint to the gentrification of the neighbourhood, cheek by jowl with the new, trendier, stores. Jim and Carol turned down the invitation, mine this time, to come back for coffee or a drink.

  We were close to Allen’s when we saw them into a cab, so Andy and I went in and got a booth. While Andy ordered Armagnacs for us both at the bar, I picked out some of my favourites on the vintage jukebox. There’s a choice at Allen’s—old jazz or old rhythm-and-blues. I selected the quieter numbers from both genres, an attempt to pre-empt the tastes of a rowdy group at the bar that looked like a softball team that had mistaken the place for the sports bar down the street. Wouldn’t they be surprised when their bar bill arrived. Max, the owner, sat at the corner of the bar, the silver star imbedded in his right front tooth glinting when he smiled at the willowy society sweetie fawning over him. He was wearing his purple-framed round glasses and looked like a decadent little owl.

  “All right, tell me about the note,” I said. “That is, if I’m allowed to have that information.”

  “Stop being a jerk. What
I tell you is confidential. I just want to keep it that way. I am breaking the rules by talking to an outsider. Jim may be my partner, but he’s still a cop. I look bad.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t think that Jim tells Carol everything?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. She’s not interested. Most women aren’t as nosy as you are.”

  “Oh, nosy, am I? I prefer to say that I’m inquisitive. That’s my job.”

  “No. Your job is only to be inquisitive about overpaid morons and the games they play.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I thought you liked talking about your cases with me.”

  We sat in hostile silence for a few minutes, avoiding each other’s eyes, waiting each other out. Andy finally spoke.

  “All right. I’ll show it to you. It was pretty strange. It was faxed to me.”

  “Oh, great, a high-tech wacko. A yuppie serial killer. Do you suppose he sent it on his car phone?”

  “Here’s a copy.”

  He passed a folded sheet of paper across the table. I opened it. At first it looked just funny; a kid’s joke cut out of magazines and newspapers. It was well-designed, a collage of headlines about the crimes, photographs of the crime scenes, underlined paragraphs cut from the reports. But the words were chilling: “How are you doing, Munro? Not so good? Too bad. You haven’t got much time. I have my next victim chosen. The stalking has begun.”

  “Catch me if you can,” I said.

  “That’s about it. This is not unusual for a serial killer. The demand for attention, and the desire to be caught. In his more rational moments, this kind of guy often really wants to be stopped.”

  “Well, you can tell a few things about him. He’s neat, for one thing. He probably got straight A’s in kindergarten. Isn’t there a way you can trace where a fax has come from?”