“Have you been up all night going through Joe’s stuff? You should get some help with that so you don’t dwell on it so much.”
I wanted to snap at him. It was my job. I was his daughter and executor of his estate. Magnus would round up a posse when it was time to move things, but it was my job to sort through the remains of my father’s life.
Before I started to rant, I did a mental check and decided that it wasn’t an appropriate response. Some of my feelings must have shown judging by the expression on Carmedy’s face.
He shook his head.
“I’d order you back to bed if I thought it would work.”
“Order?”
I forced my tired eyebrows to rise.
He grinned.
“I am the senior partner. And you’re the one who put my name above yours on the door.”
I looked at the mistletoe. Peace. It would be a lot easier to maintain if we collaborated instead of butting heads.
I took my coffee to the couch. This was where my father seated clients when he wanted to make them feel comfortable. I curled up at one end of the three-seater. Carmedy sat at the other end.
I confessed.
“I was going through one of Dad’s case files. I knew that his last police case involved domestic violence. I remember reading the papers at the time. There were conflicting reports of the incident depending, I suppose, on who provided the information to which reporter. I tried to sort it out while we waited for my father to come out of surgery. I figured I’d come up with a theory and Dad would tell me if I was right or not.”
“Assuming he knew. Trauma often causes the victim to block out events immediately before, during and after the event.”
Sometimes I forgot that Carmedy was a combat veteran and had been through his own medical and emotional trauma.
“You’re right. Like my father said after the surgery, we constantly train for the moment we hope will never come, when we need to act without thinking about it. And a good job too.”
“He said all that after surgery?”
I smiled.
“I didn’t say how long after surgery.”
Carmedy smiled back. I wondered if I could get the florist to source me fresh mistletoe year round.
“What theory did you put together?”
I sat up a little straighter.
“I’m not sure if I remember my rationale, but I deduced that the news reports were all partly correct and fundamentally wrong. One report had the shot being aimed at my father, and he dodged getting killed. Two other reports insisted that my father threw himself in front of the shooter to protect either the abused wife or the other detective on the scene. All agreed that my father got off three shots and that at least one hit the husband. Since they all agreed, I took that to be a potentially fact-based statement, not just hearsay.”
“What did the other witnesses say?”
“Nothing.”
Carmedy leaned in.
“Nothing?”
I nodded.
“The only witnesses to the shooting were Mr. and Mrs. Collins and my father’s partner, a rookie who resigned after the incident. Mrs. Collins was unresponsive. Or as one reporter put it,” I made air quotes with the hand that wasn’t holding my coffee, “a victim of abuse for years, the poor woman was unable to respond to any of the questions put forth by this reporter.”
“You memorized the line?”
I shrugged.
“It wasn’t hard. It was quoted over and over in other articles. She never made a statement to the police either. She checked herself into the Mental Health Centre. But I found that out later. At the time, the big news was that, in the ensuing confusion, the husband got away. A blood trail indicated he was wounded. Police were in hot pursuit. That’s the last I ever heard.”
“At the time,” said Carmedy.
“At the time.”
I hugged my coffee cup for warmth. It was empty but still warm and I was feeling chilled, a sure sign I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Maybe I should let Carmedy order me up to bed after all. Maybe I’d let him tuck me in…
Back up, Garrett. He’s off limits. I continued my debriefing.
“I couldn’t quite face listening to my father’s recorded notes, but he saved articles and news bytes from the aftermath. I ran a search through public and police data bases for more information. Blake Collins, the man who shot my father, was never found. He dropped off the grid and has managed to stay off it ever since.”
“That’s highly suspect. What does it have to do with our case?”
I tilted my head to one side.
“Our case, Kemosabe?”
His face scrunched up like he’d just sucked a lemon. I let him off the hook and continued.
“There are two intersection points. One, it happened in East Hills. Two, a neighbour reported that Collins had been back to the house. He took a couple of suitcases, the car and his wife’s cat, which he apparently hated and threatened to strangle.”
“So, after all this time, you think he’s returned to threaten other cats?”
When he said it like that, it did seem a bit unlikely.
“I know it’s a bit tenuous. I looked for more information in police records. Mrs. Collins moved and seems to have changed her name. Even so, East Hills is the logical place for Collins to return. If he returned.”
Now my argument seemed weak to my ears.
“Never mind,” I said, putting down my cup. “It’s just a weird coincidence.”
“Probably it’s a coincidence” said Carmedy. “Maybe it’s not. We'll keep it in mind.”
I grimaced.
“No, I’m not trying to humour you,” he said, getting up and pulling my legs into the space he had been sitting.
I took the hint and lay down. In what seemed to me like a blink of an eye, he was putting a blanket over me. I was going to get tucked in after all. Too bad I was too sleepy to appreciate it.
“Sleep on it.”
He tucked the blanket under my feet.
“Weird shit happens all the time and this case has been weird from the get-go.”