“Who would she want to protect?” PC Ashton had said.

“The assholes who presumed she’d be found dead by the side of the road?”

“Do you have daughters, Adrian?”

“No.”

“Girls this age think whatever happens to them is their fault. In my day, it was unthinkable to report a rape. If you got into trouble with a guy, it was your own damn fault. Things haven’t changed as much as we like to think.”

Wingate leaned forward over the speakers. “I really think this girl doesn’t remember a thing.”

“Get one of her girlfriends into the room. Have her tell the victim that no one thinks what happened to her is her fault. Tell her the whole school is sick about it and everyone wants these monsters to pay. See what she says.”

The girl was a student at St. Pius X in Rowanville. They brought two of the most popular girls down to the hospital and they sat by the victim’s bed weeping and holding her hand. At the end of the visit, the girls left and one of them leaned over to PC Peter MacTier, who was waiting for them in the hallway, and gave him a name. They made the arrest that same afternoon.

Wingate, sitting in a chair in the Chamber Street basement, passed Hazel the file. “They want to go to trial,” he said.

Hazel sat opposite him, the small coffee table between them doing double duty as a desk. She was listing to one side, but he ignored it. He’d told her a number of times that she should stay in bed when he visited, but she wouldn’t have it. It was bad enough she had to greet him in a housecoat; she would not play invalid to the hilt. But he could see how difficult it was for her to sit in a chair.

“Idiots,” she said. “They want the whole thing on record?”

“It’s her story too. This one” – he reached across and pointed to a name in the file – “he’s got no way out and he knows it. He just wants to shame her. And his lawyer is telling him the girl’s amnesia is going to make her unreliable on the stand.”

“She gave a name.”

“They’re going to argue her friends suggested it to her. Although when we ran the kid through CPIC, he had two priors, one violent.”

Hazel sighed.

“You know she’s changed schools,” Wingate said. “She wouldn’t go back to St. Pius.”

“Is she getting the help she needs?”

“Our job ends with the collar, Skip. You know that. We gave her mother all the phone numbers.”

She closed the file. “Justice ‘done’ and another life ruined,” she said. “We give the mother a list of phone numbers and hope for the best, right?” He shrugged sadly. “It’s a wonder we don’t have more heartbroken mothers on the trigger end of revenge killings, James. Honestly. If someone had done this to one of my daughters and then basically walked, I don’t know what I’d do. But you’d have to take away my sidearm for a year, I can tell you.” There was no role for the law in prevention, she thought, no role in giving solace. They said the law was an ass, but those who enforced it knew it was blind, deaf, and mute as well.

She tossed the file onto the table. “Anything else?”

“Well, there’s one thing,” he said, and he fished in an inside pocket, removing an envelope that had been folded in half. “This came addressed to the station house, no stamp, just a drop-off. No one has any idea what it is.” He handed it to her, and she unfolded it, noting that the address had been typed out on a label and glued to the envelope. It read “Hazel Micallef, Port Dundas OPS/Port Dundas, ON – PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL” and there was no postal code. She tipped the contents of the envelope out into her hand: a small pile of dark photographs.

She spread the pictures out on the table in front of them. There were twelve of them. To call them photographs was generous, they were nearly black images on glossy photographic paper, but there was nothing identifiable in them. In some of them, differentiation between shades of black suggested shapes, but in none of them could a concrete image be made out.

“What do you think?”

“Maybe someone wants to file a complaint against a local photo lab?” she said.

“Forbes said he thought they were pretty menacing. Like someone had sent us pictures of people with their faces X’ed out.”

“Well, if he can find any faces in these pictures, then we’ll talk. But otherwise, I’ve got no idea what it is.”

“Okay.” Wingate swept the photos off the table and put them back into the envelope.

“There was no note or anything?”

“Nothing,” he said.

She shrugged. There were crackpots everywhere, even in Westmuir County. “How are things with you? People treating you right?”

“You know. They resent me with a smile.” He cast a look around the dim room. The bed was made, the pillows squared. “And you?”

“I’m in hell. I keep hoping you’ll show up with a saw and a change of clothes.”

“How much longer?”

“I don’t know. I saw Gary – Dr. Pass – yesterday. He seems to think I’m coming along.”

He shook his head. “We all hate knowing you’re trapped down here. I wish we could make up one of the cells for you and keep you safe from all this.”

“Anything that would get me back into work would be fine with me. I’m going crazy down here.” She saw him mask the look of pity that crossed his face. There was no way to reassure her that the situation didn’t look as strange as it did.

He got up and put his cap back on. “Is there anything you need? I don’t mind being in charge of contraband if it would help any.”

She fished her pills out of the terrycloth robe’s pocket and held them up to him. “I’m covered,” she said. “You want to go back to the bed?”

She shook her head. “Glynnis is coming home for lunch in an hour. She’ll get me.”

He didn’t know what to say. He returned the few files he had with him to his bag. “I’ll see you again on Monday,” he said.

“I’ll be counting the hours. Literally.”

“How is she?”

Wingate took the day’s mail out of Melanie Cartwright’s hand and shuffled through it slowly. There was nothing else like the envelope he had in his pocket. “She’s like a tiger in a cage. It’s awful.”

“You could always put her up in your apartment.”

“I’m three floors up,” he said. “And anyway, no thanks. This is strange enough as it is. Anything happen while I was gone?”

“You mean like a palace coup?”

“Sure, anything like that?”

“Not so far.” He handed her back the entire pile of mail. She was the one who had to deal with it anyway. “They are stockpiling arms in the cells, though. I’d watch my back if I were you.” He could only manage a half-smile.

“Is that everything?”

“That’s everything,” she said.

He went into the squad room, what they all called “the pen” here, a charming touch, he thought. For a small-town shop, the Port Dundas detachment always seemed busy to him. At Twenty-one Division in Toronto, on an afternoon like this, his old squad room would be buzzing with activity of a similar-seeming sort. Desk-phones ringing; cellphones playing snatches of music; people shouting over their desks for one thing or another. And the doors to the interview rooms busy, officers marching men and women (about equally at Twenty-one) in and out of these rooms to take statements, ask questions, cops plying their peculiar forms of conversation. It was hard, after spending a day in and out of those rooms, to engage in normal conversation with normal people – the leading question was an occupational hazard. James frequently had to remind himself to ask David if anything “interesting” had happened at work rather than something “unusual.” His colleagues with families found it even harder: children and criminals often hid the truth, but for different reasons. At home, you wanted to make it safe for your kids to tell you everything; at work, you knew you had to catch a mutt in a lie. There were ways to make it safe to tell the truth, and ways to make it hard to hide it, and the tactics were different. He knew a lot of detective-mums and detective-dads who didn’t leave enough of the investigative mind at work. There was no room for love in an interview, but you had to find it in yourself again when you went home.