for alternative approaches, but the field is full of quackery and fake science, trading on people’s fears and hopes. That was the biggest problem we saw with Rosenthal’s patients. They’d been treated at the hospital for schizophrenia or bipolar and stabilized on the latest drugs. Then after discharge they’d trot off to Rosenthal complaining of side effects, and he’d take them off. A few months later, bingo, they’re hearing voices again and they’re back inside. With each psychotic break, their life spirals down. Jobs are lost, marriages destroyed, dreams and plans shattered.”
Green had seen enough schizophrenics to know they often stopped taking their meds of their own accord anyway. They’d cross his path when they ended up on the streets acting crazy enough to scare people. He’d heard their reasons often enough. They felt so good after awhile on the meds, they decided maybe they’d been cured and they didn’t need them any more. Or they hated the side effects, which gave them the shakes and made them feel they were living their life inside cobwebs. A doctor like Rosenthal, who told them they didn’t need the meds after all, would have been greeted like the Messiah.
If they ever realized they’d been duped, however unintentionally, they would have felt betrayed.
Betrayed enough to seek revenge? he wondered, then shook his head at his own crazy thoughts. Blame it on the midnight hour. Levesque had her own, much more sensible line of investigation.
A shadow fell across his desk. “You’ve been a busy beaver.”
Green looked up to see Brian Sullivan lounging in the doorway. To his relief, the head of Major Crimes had a crooked grin on his freckled face and a twinkle in his blue eyes. Green hadn’t known what the fallout might be from his foray into the trenches yesterday, but now he guessed Sergeant Levesque was too smart and ambitious to complain about the meddling inspector to her NCO directly, particularly when it was common knowledge in the ranks that Green and Sullivan were not only former partners but close friends.
He returned the grin with a shrug. “What’s a little help between friends? It was my day off, and I just used my connections to speed things along.”
“She’s smart and she’s good, Green, even if she doesn’t know about your legendary investigative skills. Before her time.” He grinned. Nice payback, Green thought.“She looked into that B & E you mentioned, had read the whole file before roll call this morning. Doesn’t look like there’s much there. Might have been a random thing, or maybe they were looking for drugs or a prescription pad. They turned the place over, but Rosenthal didn’t have either.”
“He wasn’t a big fan of prescription drugs,” Green said.
“We’re concentrating on the gang thing, trying to ID the four punks on the security camera.”
Sullivan’s six-foot-four footballer’s frame filled most of the doorway, but nonetheless Green could get a glimpse of the bustling squad room behind him. Tilting his head, he signalled Sullivan to come in and shut the door. Sullivan obliged, sinking into the plastic guest chair and propping his huge feet on the corner of Green’s desk. The grin had faded from his face, leaving a wary, questioning look.
“There probably is no connection between the break-in and the attack,” Green said. “But I think Levesque should send someone around to reexamine the apartment and reinterview neighbours. The guy made enemies, or at least pissed people off with his manner, and in today’s hopped-up, macho drug culture, that can be enough.”
Sullivan’s expression turned smug.“Already done. She’s got Jones working on a search warrant for his place right now. We still need to confirm the ID, so she’ll be looking for the usual— dentist’s name, personal papers, date book, and next of kin.”
“Any luck tracking down the son?”
“Not yet, but Levesque assigned it to Gibbsie. He’s checking public records. So far there’s no record of a birth, so it must have been out of province.”
“Maybe even out of the country,” Green said, remembering Rosenthal’s roundabout academic journey from South Africa through the UK. “But if he’s in a system anywhere, Gibbs will find him.” Green wondered how the son would react. Losing a family member to murder was a horrifying shock, no matter how estranged the family was. “MacPhail doing the autopsy this morning?”
Sullivan nodded. “But it will be weeks before we get any DNA results back from the lab. There is a hell of a backlog, even when we mark top priority on it. I still think those surveillance tapes and forensics are our best bet. We’re also talking to Lowell from the Guns and Gangs Unit and getting the names of all the known members operating in the neighbourhood, and all the wannabes—”
“That’s just about everybody!” The Byward Market was one of the central clearing houses for the drug trade. Hardcore addicts and weekend partygoers alike headed down to its narrow, jumbled streets to make a score.
“These men are black—possibly Somali or Ethiopian from what we can tell from the piece of crap tape—so we’ll concentrate on those groups first. We also think Rosenthal inflicted some damage. There’s tissue under his fingernails, which he kept well manicured, by the way—the guy was a class act—and some blood and hair on the rubber tip of his cane. Our punks may have some visible war wounds, so we want to get a look at all possible suspects ASAP.”
“Sounds good. Keep me posted, especially if you locate the son. Meanwhile I’ll poke around into this guy’s background using the connections I have. If I turn up anything, I’ll pass it on.”
Sullivan lifted his feet off the desk and took a deep breath as if gathering his forces for the day ahead. “Sure, Mike. Whatever makes you happy.”
Green laughed and waved towards the door. “What can I say? Most times the hoofbeats are horses, but you got to keep an eye out for zebras. Now get out of here. I’ve got some pointless action proposal to prepare for Superintendent Devine. She’s revving up her campaign for Deputy Chief into high gear, so I have to solve the spike in domestics by five o’clock today.”
Omar twitched aside the curtain and peered down the street. The cop car was still there, parked in front of Nadif ’s house. Omar hadn’t seen them go in, but they’d been in there an awful long time. Omar itched to phone Nadif to find out what was up, but he didn’t dare. For one thing, his fucking father would probably hear the phone click and pick up in the middle. For another, Nadif wouldn’t be able to tell him a thing with the cops standing two feet away.
He paced back into the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. He’d cleaned up the snot and blood the best he could and spent most of Sunday in bed, but he still looked like he’d hit a brick wall. There were scrapes on his arms, his nose was swollen, and one eye was half shut. He’d thought of washing his hoodie and jeans in the bathtub, but he was afraid his father would freak out at the mess. Instead he’d bundled them in a ball and shoved them in the back of his closet to deal with when he could sneak out to the garbage bin in the alley behind. His father had slapped him under house arrest for a month, and even now he was downstairs keeping an eagle eye out.
Omar wished he knew what story Yusuf and Nadif were telling the cops. Maybe they’d all settled on a story Saturday night, but he couldn’t remember. Just like he couldn’t remember what the hell they’d done after they left the park or how the hell he’d gotten blood all over himself. His stomach still felt like the bottom of a sewer, but at least his headache was gone and his brains were back in place. If the cops came, he’d have to wing his version, admit to all the stuff he could remember that was legal—probably even cop to the joints, no big deal—then say he went straight home. Tripped on the curb and fell down on the way. He’d stick to that, say it was all he could remember. Nadif always said if you’re going to lie, best to stick as close to the truth as possible.
Maybe Nadif wouldn’t squeal on him. Maybe the cops