Gerry Burnie

 

This story is quite a departure from my first novel, Two Irish Lads. The timeline—1950-1975—is different of course, as is the narrative style. Moreover, it is more nostalgia than history. Nevertheless, I have tried to make it as accurate as possible regarding the period in which it is set.

I think the readers of my generation (50+) will enjoy some of the memories it evokes, and those who are younger will find it interesting to see how teenage life was in the 1950s and 60s.

That said, Journey to Big Sky is a much edgier and graphic story than Two Irish Lads. This approach is in keeping with the nature of the plot and the characters portrayed. It is therefore written with a mature readership in mind.

It should also be said that the political scenes are more-or-less representative, but in telling the story I have taken quite a few liberties to keep the plot and pace moving along. Consequently, these should not be read as entirely accurate.

The same applies to those scenes involving the Metro Toronto Police Department. Apart from the name these scenes should be viewed as entirely fictional in every respect.

 

Part 1

 

 

It was a warm spring day in Ottawa. The year was 1974, and inside the otherwise dignified walls of the Canadian House of Commons the rancorous sound of debate could be heard. Oral Question Period was underway, and with the television cameras recording their activities, the members were making a good showing for their constituents back home. Nevertheless, there was an underlying feeling of disappointment that the prime minister had not yet taken his seat, for without him the debate seemed to lack a certain spark that none of his ministers could ignite.

At his seat in the second row of the Social Democratic Party’s section, Sheldon Cartwright felt this disappointment more keenly than most. In the large manila envelope that lay on the desk in front of him was the so-called “silver bullet” that could possibly bring the governing Liberal Reform Party down in the next election. However, without the prime minister to aim it at it was a carom shot at best.

At twenty-eight, Cartwright was one of the youngest members ever to be elected to the House of Commons. However, with his youthful good looks, and his wife Susan and their two children, Lisa 6 and Wally 8, campaigning beside him, he had managed to woo the voters of his North York riding in spite of his lack of any real political experience. Consequently, he had been elected on the strength of his wholesome good looks and his family-man image as much as anything else.

Nevertheless, he regarded his mandate quite seriously, and with this conviction in mind he had set about applying himself with a youthful zeal that eventually caught the attention of some key members of his party. This, in turn, resulted in his early promotion from relative obscurity to the party’s Health and Environment Critic. Moreover, there was some speculation that he might one day replace Elgin MacDonald as leader.

 “Do you think he’s going to show today?” MacDonald turned to ask him, referring to the prime minister.

“Knowing him, he’s probably waiting for the visitor’s gallery to fill,” Cartwright quipped half-seriously.

As a leader MacDonald was competent enough, but compared to the flamboyant prime minister he was utterly colourless. He had come to the leadership role by way of a compromise between two feuding factions within the party, but he had never really fit it comfortably. Moreover, he was not a particularly gifted debater, so he generally left this role to people like Cartwright—especially when it came to locking horns with the prime minister.

Not that Cartwright minded this arrangement at all, for any day he could debate the prime minister was a highlight of it. He was also well suited with a postgraduate degree in political science, and an innate flair for the thrust and parry required to do battle with such a wily adversary.

Presently, the chamber came alive as the prime minister appeared on the floor, and in unison the television cameras all swung about to record his arrival. Therefore, he paused at the top of the steps to savour this attention before he descended, somewhat regally, to his front row seat.

At the same time, from across the expanse of green carpet that separated them, the leader of the official opposition sprang to his feet to be recognized.

“The Honourable Leader of the Opposition,” the Speaker announced, thereby granting him permission to address the assembly.

“Thank you, Madame Speaker. I have a question for the prime minister if I may,” the stern-faced opposition leader announced in a somewhat blustery manner. “Since the Right Honourable Gentleman has seen fit to grace us with his presence today, perhaps he would be good enough to tell us if he is aware of the grave warning that the premier of Alberta has issued, to the effect that if the prime minister proceeds with his proposed natural gas tax it will be perceived as an open declaration of war against that province?”

The PM then stood to face the opposition leader almost lethargically.

“Yes, Madame Speaker,” he replied, and then promptly sat down again.

Somewhat nonplussed by this, the opposition leader bounced back to his feet like a Rolly Polly doll. “Supplementary, Madame Speaker,” he barked with the colour rising in his cheeks.

“In that case, is the prime minister not concerned by the premier’s warning, and does he still intend to proceed with this odious tax?”

Once again the prime minister arose with a look of forbearance on his face.

“No, to the first part of the question, and ‘yes’ to the second part of it, Madame Speaker,” he replied with the same dismissive attitude as before.

Quite predictably, this brought gales of laughter from the government side of the House, and hoots of indignation from the opposition side. Cartwright hooted indignantly too, but inside he was chuckling over the prime minister’s incredible audacity. However, his immediate purpose was to try to bring the PM’s government down, so he quickly sprang to his feet to be recognized.

“The Honourable Member from St. Bartholomew-on-the-Hill,” the Speaker announced to restore order.

“Madame Speaker, since the Minister of Health is absent today, I will address my question to the prime minister,” he told her.

The Speaker nodded in return, and the prime minister swung about to meet Cartwright’s challenge with a slight smile on his face. By now they were well-acquainted adversaries, and by every indication the prime minister enjoyed their exchanges as well—somewhat like a teacher does with a gifted student. However, this time the student was about to challenge the teacher.

“No doubt the prime minister has heard or read about the so-called ‘Minimata Disease,’” Cartwright began slowly and deliberately to gather dramatic effect. “It is so-named after a fishing village in Japan where over a hundred people have already died from eating mercury-contaminated fish. Otherwise, it is an illness and death so horrifying that it almost defies description,” he added, as a sombre silence descended over the chamber to listen to him.

Assured of everyone’s attention, Cartwright now opened the envelope that only he and Elgin MacDonald knew about so far; however, since it was Cartwright who had received it from an anonymous source, MacDonald had agreed that he should be the one to introduce it for the record.

“Having said that, Madame Speaker,” Cartwright went on, “I have here a report prepared for the Ministry of Health dated April 16th, 1972. In it, it states quite categorically that fish taken from the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers in north-western Ontario, contain levels of mercury that are several times higher than any known limits of acceptability. In fact, it goes on to state that when animals were fed a diet of these contaminated fish over a four-week period of time, they began to show symptoms of methyl mercury poisoning to such a degree that they had to be destroyed. It also states that the health of the inhabitants of that particular region must be, and I quote, ‘… considered at risk on account of it.’”

A sudden look of unease came over the prime minister’s face, and the confident smile faded from his lips. There was also quite a flurry of activity in the press gallery as the small contingent of reporters sensed that something significant was coming.

“In view of this,” Cartwright cocked his verbal gun, “can the prime minister offer this House any possible … plausible reason why this report has lay hidden in the bowels of the Health Department for over two years? Or failing that, can he tell us why his government did nothing to discourage the consumption of fish taken from these two rivers?”

The attention then shifted to the prime minister who arose somewhat slowly before responding.

“Madame Speaker, I am not aware of any such report, but I will look into it and respond to the honourable member’s question at a later date,” he hedged somewhat noticeably.

“Supplementary, Madame Speaker,” Cartwright immediately followed up. “If the prime minister wishes I will personally deliver a copy of the report to his office. I’m sure he will find it interesting if not chilling reading. In the meantime, perhaps he would be good enough to answer the second part of my question. Since his government was clearly aware that the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers were contaminated, why has it done nothing to discourage the consumption of fish in that region?”

Again the prime minister arose to his feet rather slowly, obviously thinking as he did so. “As I have stated previously, Madame Speaker, I am unaware of this particular report; however, environmental matters of this nature are a provincial responsibility, so the member opposite should be directing his questions to the Province of Ontario.”

“Cop out!” some members of Cartwright’s party shouted disdainfully, and others on the opposition side of the House were quick to join in.

“Order … Ordre!” the Speaker demanded in English and French, and from the steps surrounding her dais the parliamentary pages stirred like a flock of black chicks as she arose to indicate her authority over the proceedings.

“Supplementary!” he called out, jumping to his feet as if he sensed blood. “While it is true that the province has control over the environment within its boundaries, the federal government … this prime minister’s government, mind … has jurisdiction over the waters flowing across provincial borders; therefore, I will take this opportunity to inform the prime minister that the water from the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers eventually end up in Manitoba … across a provincial border, Madame Speaker. So it appears that he is no more informed about the geography of Canada than he is about the goings-on in his own department. Let him respond to that if he will.”

This barb caused an explosion of derisive laughter and desk thumping from those on the opposition side of the House, but since Cartwright’s allotment of three questions had now expired, the prime minister chose not to reply. That brought an end to the exchange, and the debate moved on to other issues.

Several members of his party rushed forward to pat Cartwright enthusiastically on the back, leaving Elgin MacDonald looking on from the sideline.

Cartwright acknowledged them gratefully, and then settled down to consider how he had fared in the exchange. Regrettably, he had failed to land the sort of knock out blow he had hoped to, but this was not entirely unexpected. Few people ever managed to find a chink in the prime minister’s armour. He was a veteran politician, and savvy as well, but there was yet another way to undo him. Within the House Cartwright was merely one voice against the government’s entrenched majority, but the public was another forum of opinion, and he could speak directly to them through the media. Therefore, he took some time to mentally prepare himself before leaving the chamber through a side door.

He emerged on the other side looking relaxed and confident as the cameras and microphones all rushed to surround him. “Where had the report come from? Had it been leaked? How serious was the health risk?” several reporters clamoured to know all at the same time.

He ignored the first two questions to concentrate on the third—being the most politically volatile of the three.

“In my opinion … and apparently in the Ministry of Health’s opinion as well … this is a major health hazard,” he responded, holding up a copy of the leaked report to emphasize his words. “Methyl mercury poisoning is a proven killer. It has already killed over one hundred people in Minimata, Japan, and some thirty more in Nigata. Therefore, the Native population living along the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers is in grave danger. Yet, these people’s welfares have been compromised for over two years by an arrogant and uncaring government. That I find unconscionable … as I am sure you do as well.”

“Why do you suppose it has been kept a secret for so long?” one reporter asked.

“You’ll have to ask the prime minister that question,” he responded.

He then began to move on when he was confronted by one of the veteran, parliamentary correspondents.

“One more question, Mr. Cartwright, please,” he began, “word has it that you might be in line for the leadership of your party. Do you have any comment on that?”

“That’s news to me,” Cartwright responded elusively as he stepped inside a waiting elevator to put an end to the interview. He then left the Centre Block by way of a tunnel that led to his West Block office. Monique Leyrac, his secretary, would be waiting for him with a cup of coffee and his messages. It was a routine she had practiced since he first came to Ottawa a year ago, and he looked forward to it at the end of each day.

Along the way he encountered Michael Manley, one of the longest serving members of the Social Democrat Party. He was a man well into his sixties, yet remarkably spry for his years. He was also highly regarded as a strategist within the party. Nevertheless, he had a fatherly attitude about him—especially toward the junior members of the caucus.

“Congratulations, Sheldon,” Manley said, as he puffed on the long-stemmed pipe that was his trademark. “I do believe you had the PM on the run there for a while. Too bad you couldn’t have pinned him down a bit more, but he’s an elusive fox to be chasing around the hen house.”

“You’re right about that, Michael,” Cartwright chuckled, “But I’m not finished with him yet.”

“And how’s everything at home?” Manley asked, changing the subject somewhat abruptly. “How are that beautiful wife and those two adorable children of yours?

Cartwright was somewhat puzzled by his question—out of context as it was, so he suspected that Manley was leading up to something in his own, inimical fashion.

“Splendid Michael, thank you for asking,” he replied while waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I suppose you miss them … being here in Ottawa most of the time, I mean,” Manley continued, methodically puffing on his pipe at the same time.

“I surely do, but under the circumstances there’s not much I can do about it. It’s a bit too far to commute,” he quipped, good-naturedly.

You’re right about that, of course” Manley mused. “Too bad you couldn’t move them to Ottawa … but I suppose that would be rather difficult on a regular member’s salary,” he added.

“Impossible, is more like it, Michael,” Cartwright laughed. “It’s hard enough to make ends meet with a mortgage to pay in Toronto, and rent to pay here.”

“I quite understand,” Manley continued to puff methodically. “Now, if you were leader you’d have your accommodation paid for.”

Cartwright finally caught his drift. “You’re not suggesting I go after Elgin’s job, are you, Michael?” he grinned.

“Of course not. That would be somewhat seditious,” Manley smiled, wryly. “But the winds of change are beginning to stir, and if you position yourself in the right spot they might just blow in your direction.” Then he patted Cartwright’s shoulder and strode off with the smoke from his pipe trailing behind.

Cartwright stared after him feeling somewhat elated in a way. Manley had just ‘anointed him with smoke,’ and according to many in the party this was a very good sign indeed. No doubt others were being quietly sounded out as well, but because of Manley’s revered status it would be his choice that was likely to prevail in the end.

Sheldon had not seriously considered the role of leadership this early in his political career, but it was obvious the party needed some vitality if it was going to appeal to an increasingly younger electorate—the so-called “Baby-Boomers,” of which he was one.

So why not me? He thought as he continued on. I’ll speak to Susan about it.

When he reached his office Monique was waiting for him with a handful of messages, and he took these inside to routinely sort through them. One of these caught his interest. On it, Monique had written, Man called several times. Would not leave name or message. Cartwright studied it curiously for a moment, but then he continued to sort through the others.

Presently he was interrupted by the sound of the intercom.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cartwright, it’s that man calling for you again, but he still won’t tell me his name. Do you want to speak to him?”

“Sure, why not,” he replied. “I’m curious, so put him through.”

Immediately he picked up the receiver a gravelly voice assailed him.

“Well, what d’ya know? The whiz-kid himself,” he growled, sarcastically.

“Who am I speaking to?” Cartwright asked politely.

“Read the newspapers today?” he asked, obviously ignoring Cartwright’s question. “There’s somethin’ in there about Trace that might interest ya.”

“Trace?” Cartwright asked in surprise.

“Yah, Trace. Ya remember him, don’t ya?”

Although he had not seen or heard from him for years, Cartwright did indeed remember Trace Colborn. Therefore, he was suddenly on his guard.

“How did you know that I knew Trace?”

“That’s for me t’ know and you t’ find out,” he replied, and then the connection was abruptly terminated at the other end.

Cartwright replaced the receiver slowly, and sat staring at the telephone for a long moment before he pressed the button on the intercom. “Do we have any newspapers from Toronto?” he asked when Monique responded.

“Yes, all of them.”

“Bring them in, please. I want to catch up on the news.”

In a short while she entered with a bundle of newspapers under her arm, and placed them on his desk in front of him. He thanked her and waited until she had left before he hurriedly leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. It was just beneath a story about a missing Rosedale man, and it bore the headline: Homicide suspected in Cabbagetown fire.

 

Firefighters responding to an alarm in the Cabbagetown District made a grizzly discovery when they found the body of a man that bore obvious signs of trauma to it. Police were then summoned, and the death is now being treated as a homicide investigation.

 

Although police have not yet confirmed the identity of the victim, building superintendent Arnold Kotch said that the apartment was rented to 32-year-old Trace Colborn of that address.

 

Several items thought to have belonged to the deceased man were also found in the hallway outside the apartment, and this has led police to speculate that robbery may have been a motive. Police also say it appears that a flammable substance was used to torch the victim’s body.

 

Cartwright closed the newspaper in a stunned silence, and then leaned back deep in thought. In his mind’s eye he could still see Colborn’s brooding figure standing over him in that remote corner of the schoolyard in Pefferlaw. He had always tried to dominate Cartwright with his hulking size and strength, and even more so when they had met again as teenagers in Toronto; therefore, he wondered how anyone could have overpowered him in the end. In fact, it wouldn’t have come as any great surprise if it had been the other way around.

Presently his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the intercom.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cartwright,” Monique’s voice came over it. “Douglas Hepworth from the Prime Minister’s Office is on the line. Are you in?”

“Well, well,” Cartwright mused. “The PM’s principal secretary no less … yes, put him through, Monique.”

He then picked up the telephone with a somewhat bemused tone in his voice. “Cartwright here.”

“Douglas Hepworth from the PMO, Mr. Cartwright. I was wondering if it might be possible to get a copy of that health report you presented in House this afternoon? We’d like to compare it to ours … to verify it, you understand.”

That’s a likely story, Cartwright thought to himself. You probably can’t find it in the Health Department’s files, and the PM is breathing down your neck to get a-hold of it.

“Yes, of course,” he replied aloud. “I’ll have a courier drop it off to you.”

“Oh, and just one more thing, if I may?” Hepworth added somewhat tentatively. “Would it be possible to get the original? Copies are sometimes so difficult to read,” he explained.

Cartwright smiled again. “I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, noncommittally, and it was left at that.

He then buzzed Monique on the intercom. “Send a copy of that health report to the PM’s office, Monique,” he told her. “Address it to Doug Hepworth … and make sure he doesn’t get the original,” he laughed.

She laughed, too. “Why, did he ask for it?”

“You guessed it.”

“Right away,” she laughed again. “But the reporters are beginning to call as well, so what should I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m in committee meetings for the rest of the day,” he replied. “I need some time to think for a while, but see if you can get Susan on the line for me.”

He then settled down to work until the intercom buzzed, signalling him that Susan was waiting on the line, and he picked up the receiver in eager anticipation.

“Hello, darling,” he said straightaway.

“Hi tiger,” she laughed. “I just finished watching you go after the PM in question period. It was on TV.”

“Already?”

“Well, apparently it’s a hot news item, and some stations broke into their regular programming to feature it.”

“That’s really something,” he remarked in amazement, “so what did you think of it?”

“You looked great, and some political commentators are remarking on how well you went after the prime minister.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Do you think I did well enough to get a leadership bid?” he teased.

 “Leadership?” she questioned. “When did that come up?”

“I met Michael Manley this afternoon, and he hinted that the party is looking for a new leader. He also hinted that he wants me to throw my hat in the ring. What do you think about that idea?”

“I don’t know, Shelly. It’s a big step, and we hardly get to see you as it is.”

“Yes, but if I was leader I could afford to bring you and the kids to Ottawa … a house allowance comes with the job,” he added.

“That would certainly be nice,” she agreed. “But we’ll have to talk about it when you come home this weekend. You are coming home, aren’t you?”

“I plan on it,” he reassured her. “How are the kids?”

After that they went on to discuss family matters before saying their goodbyes with words of love and kisses. He then gathered his remaining work into a briefcase, and left Monique to cope with the growing number of media calls. If this really was the ‘hot’ issue that Susan had described, he needed time to carefully prepare his strategy—especially in view of the leadership possibility.  Therefore, he drove to his modest apartment on the other side of town, and after showering and changing his clothes, he settled down to watch the six o’clock news while he ate a TV dinner.

Nearly every channel carried a clip of his encounter with the prime minister, and also his brief scrum with the media afterward.

“Holy crap!” he muttered to himself as he began to realize the magnitude of the controversy he had unleashed. It was indeed a hot news item, and he was front-and-centre in it.

Just then the telephone rang. It was Elgin MacDonald on the line, and they talked at length about the media coverage. MacDonald then asked him to attend an early morning strategy meeting in his office, and Cartwright agreed.

Next, he received a call from his good friend Colin Scrubbs. Scrubbs was a member of the Liberal Reform Party from Saskatchewan, but their friendship had grown quite close in spite of their political differences.

“Where the hell did you get that little bombshell, kid?” he laughed, referring to the health report.

“Can’t tell you, Saskatchewan, but how do you feel about it?”

“Better than the PM, I can tell you,” he chuckled. “He’s fit to be tied, and he’s put the whole party in damage control mode. I’d hate to be working for the Health Department right now,” he added.

Cartwright smiled at this thought. “Looks good on them,” he observed. “But I don’t know when we’re going to be able to get together for a beer after this. I’ll keep in touch though, and in the meantime we’d better not be seen together until the PM settles down.”

 “Good idea,” Colin chuckled again. “Otherwise, I may be invited to sit as an independent.”

“Or as a Social Democrat,” Sheldon joked.

“I’ll keep that option in mind,” he laughed. “Good night, kid.”

The next morning he returned to Parliament Hill and went directly to MacDonald’s office. Michael Manley and several others—both elected and non-elected advisers—were already there, and they all greeted Cartwright with congratulations before they got down to business.

“So where should we go from here with this issue?” MacDonald asked to start the formal part of the discussion.

“I think you should take it over, Elgin,” one of the non-elected advisers suggested. “Sheldon has done a good job of getting the ball into the air, but now it should be handled at the leadership level in my opinion.”

Cartwright was somewhat incensed by this suggestion, but he held back in order to hear what the others had to say before speaking. Michael Manley remained silent too, but out of the corner of his eye Cartwright could see Manley watching him intently.

“I think Elgin should take it over, too,” another non-elected adviser chimed in. “This health issue should be seen as a party position, and not just a one-member campaign. It’s an election grabber if ever I saw one.”

The elected members also expressed their opinions, mostly in favour of letting Cartwright carry on, but Manley continued to smoke his pipe in silence.

“And what do you think, Sheldon?” MacDonald finally asked him outright.

“Well, Elgin,” he began. “It seems to me that I’m the Health and Environment Critic for this party, and I can hardly think of a single issue that is more in keeping with both,” he went on without trying to mask his feelings. “I might also add that as the party critic I speak for the whole party, so this is not just my campaign. But if you want to tackle the prime minister yourself, Elgin, it’s your call,” he added, knowing MacDonald’s reticence in this regard.

MacDonald understood his point well enough, but just then Michael Manley finally spoke up.

“I agree with Sheldon,” he said as he tapped his pipe into an ashtray like a gavel. “He’s the party’s critic on such matters, and it also appears that whoever leaked that report wanted him to run with it. Elgin can stand behind him to keep the party’s flag flying, but what is most important is that we all keep the government’s feet to the fire while the press is still interested.”

Everyone listened quite intently while he spoke, and shortly afterward a press conference was hastily arranged for later that day. Cartwright would act as the spokesman regarding the report, and MacDonald would be there to show the party’s overall concern.

Cartwright then returned to his own office and closeted himself inside while he prepared for what he realized would probably be the most important performance of his career. He therefore decided to follow Michael Manley’s advice about keeping the government’s feet to the fire wherever possible. Following that he discussed his plan with Elgin MacDonald, who readily agreed to it, and together they proceeded to the press conference in a committee room equipped for such a purpose.

The quite spacious room was already crowded with reporters, cameras and cameramen when they took their places at a table bristling with microphones. As arranged, Elgin MacDonald addressed them first.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “As leader of the Social Democratic Party I will make a brief statement on behalf of the party, and then Sheldon Cartwright, our Health and Environment Critic, will outline the immediate issue before we take questions.”

He then read a prepared statement, and while he did so Cartwright noticed Michael Manley standing at the back of the room, pipe clenched between his teeth and quietly taking it all in. Therefore, he doubled his determination to make a good showing.

When MacDonald had finished, Cartwright took over to explain what was known about the issue so far, punctuating it with several quotes taken from the leaked report. He also used a map to illustrate how the waters of the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers ended up in Manitoba—to emphasize that it was a federal matter.

“By the way,” he quipped, “I have sent a map of Canada to the prime minister so he can see what it looks like.” This jibe brought quite a few laughs at the PM’s expense, but it was all part of his strategy to keep the heat directed toward him.

Questions were then invited. Most of these were directed toward Cartwright, and had to do with the origin of the leaked report.

“I received the report anonymously, so I have no knowledge of who might have sent it to me,” he replied. “However, I do want to commend this unknown individual for his or her public spirit, and I only wish the prime minister and his government had the same level of public concern to their credit.”

“Why you, specifically?” another reporter asked him.

“Because I am the Health and Environment Critic for the Social Democratic Party, but my leader has been advised and consulted at every step along the way. On the other hand, the prime minister claims to have no knowledge of a significant report prepared by one of his own departments, so it appears that we Social Democrats are on better speaking terms than he and his officials.”

This brought another chuckle from the crowd of reporters as they hastily made a note of it, and in the background he could see Michael Manley nod and smile before he quietly slipped away.

The remainder of the press conference went much the same way—with questions being tossed at him, and Cartwright fielding them with an extra barb thrown in to entangle the prime minister and his government in a web of responsibility. Therefore, the reporters finally went away with enough material to fill several columns with ink, and several news broadcasts as well.

Cartwright felt quite good about it himself, and his adrenalin was still running fairly high as he accompanied MacDonald back to his office. MacDonald then invited him inside for a drink, and Cartwright accepted.

“You handled that press mob remarkably well,” MacDonald observed as they relaxed together. “You have quite a flare for that sort of thing, and it really came through today.”

“It’s an issue I believe in very strongly, Elgin. People’s lives are at stake, and someone in the Health Department put their neck on the line to tell me about it. Mind you, I also enjoy tweaking the prime minister whenever I get a chance,” he added with a grin.

“Yes, I saw that as well,” MacDonald chuckled. “His ego does need a good trimming now and then, but I think he’s found his nemesis in you. So what are your plans for the future? Are you going to stay with politics?”

“I think so for as long as I am making a contribution, but if I ever get the feeling I’m not I’ll look for something else.”

“Very wise,” MacDonald observed. “Lately I’ve been thinking about my own future, so I’ll keep that thought in mind.”

Although he couldn’t be quite certain, Cartwright thought he heard a subtle hint that MacDonald was considering stepping aside; however, he didn’t choose to pursue it.

When he left MacDonald’s office he returned to his own for a while, and then decided to treat himself to a restaurant meal for a change. Therefore, he left his office to wander aimlessly along the Rideau Canal until he spied a small restaurant that appealed to him. It was one of those Paris-style bistros that served continental dishes with a flourish. Therefore, he entered it just as his face appeared on the television set mounted behind the bar. The maître d' was intently watching the TV monitor, and when he turned to see Cartwright standing inside the doorway he rushed forward to shake his hand.

“Bonjour, monsieur, uh … Cartwright, I believe,” he said in a pronounced French accent. “I recognize you from zee television just now, and it is my very great plaisir to serve you this evening.”

Cartwright was somewhat taken aback by this unexpected greeting, but he thanked him and took a seat before ordering a glass of wine to start. He then sipped at it while he continued to watch the remainder of the newscast with considerable interest.

A good part of it was devoted to the press conference, and directly following that there was a brief interview with the Minister of Health.

“We are still trying to determine the authenticity of this mysterious report,” the Minister stated. “We know of no such report ever having been authorized by anyone in my department. However, I can assure you that I take the matter very seriously.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cartwright muttered to himself, but at the same time he recognized the prime minister’s wily thinking by casting doubt on the authenticity of the report itself—the one thing that Sheldon couldn’t prove.

“Would monsieur care to order now?” the maître d' interrupted.

“I’ll have a brandy,” he replied as he began to assess this latest development.

 

*          *            *

 

Meanwhile in Toronto, Detective Sergeant Howard Sokalowski of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department was just returning to his office from a brief vacation. He was a tough, veteran cop with a long list of arrests behind him, but after nearly twenty years of service he was only half way up the command ladder. He attributed this lack of recognition to a fairly recent policy of promoting the younger and better-educated candidates over longevity. This wasn’t just his imagination at work, for it was something he had been told several times before.

“Upgrade your education skills, Howard,” the higher-ups had told him each time they had passed him over for some “smart ass kid,” as he referred to them. “We can’t fault you on your record, but your education points are still holding you back.” Therefore, Sokalowski had developed a smouldering resentment for anyone younger and better education than his high school level.

This situation was in the back of his mind when he was called to a meeting with the Deputy Chief of Detectives—a man several years his junior with a law degree from some fancy university.

“This case is going to challenge you, Howard,” the Deputy Chief told him as he handed over a file folder. “We think the victim’s name is Trace Colborn. His body was found by the fire department over in Cabbagetown the other night. These are the crime scene photographs and a copy of the coroner’s report. A crowbar was also found at the scene, but I sent it over to forensics for analysis. There’s also a box of items found outside his apartment, but that’s about all we have so far.

“Stuck, are we?” Sokalowski smirked.

“Not me,” the Deputy grinned, knowing Sokalowski’s attitude. “Now it’s your baby … but I’ll be here if you need me,” he rubbed it in.

Smart ass, Sokalowski thought to himself. I’ll teach you.

He then stuffed the file folder into the cardboard box and carried it down to his modest office several floors below. There, he removed his Jacket and loosened his tie before he sat down to sort through the contents. The crime scene photographs revealed a particularly brutal attack, for it appeared that the victim’s features had been bludgeoned almost beyond recognition before the body was partially torched.

Why the double whammy? he wondered to himself as his detective’s instincts began to take over. He then turned his attention to the contents of the box, and the first item to catch his eye was something that looked like a photograph album. However, there was only one photograph in it—a naked youth of about sixteen years of age. He was fully erect and looking somewhat awkward about it. The other pages were taken up with an assortment of carefully preserved press clippings that appeared to follow the career of some politician by the name of Sheldon Cartwright.

“Hello …” he muttered, as he sensed a connection between the two. Then he reached for the telephone and dialled the secretary he shared with several others.

“Get me whoever was on duty the night of the Colborn homicide,” he told her.

“Who would that be, Serg?” She asked.

“How the hell should I know? I’ve been on vacation until now, and I wish I was still there,” Sokalowski replied. “Ask the smart a—, uh … the Deputy Chief upstairs.”

The secretary giggled for a moment. “Okay, Serg, I’ll ask the smart ass’s secretary.”

“Good girl,” Sokalowski laughed.

He then continued to sort through the contents of the box, but there was nothing of any significance to be found. A few minor documents bearing Colborn’s name, but otherwise it was just litter as far as he could tell.

Just then the telephone rang. “Hi Serg. It’s me, Dave Cameron. I handled that homicide over in Cabbagetown while you were away,” one of his regular detectives told him.

“Well, at least they didn’t assign one of those smart ass rookies,” Sokalowski replied. “Can you drop by my office and bring me up to speed on this thing, Dave?”

“Sure thing, Serg, be right there.”

True to his word, David Cameron appeared at his door a few minutes later, and after exchanging a few pleasantries they got down to business.

“Describe the scene just like you remember it, Dave, and try not to leave out any details,” Sokalowski told him. “I want to get a picture of it in my mind.”

“Well, the place was in sort of a mess on account of the fire, but the body was lying in the middle of the living room floor, and the face was bashed all to hell. Whoever did this must have really had it in for this guy. I mean, I’ve seen plenty of stiffs in my time, but this one nearly made me barf my guts up,” he replied.

“Any signs of a struggle?”

“Well, it was hard to tell. The fire guys had to use their hoses some inside the apartment, so a lot of things got knocked around from that, but I’d say the guy was dropped where he stood … there was a fairly big gash on the back of his head.”

“An ambush from behind, then.”

“That’s what I think.”

“What about this other stuff?” he asked, gesturing toward the box. “Where did you find that?”

“It was scattered around outside the apartment.”

“Like the assailant dropped it when he made his escape.”

“Not exactly. It looked more like it was just pitched there.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Well, there was no pattern to it, so he either pitched or scattered it for some reason.”

Sokalowski thought about Cameron’s theory for a moment, but it didn’t make much sense. In fact, nothing about this case made much sense so far. Nevertheless, he was determined to crack it to show the smart ass Deputy that he didn’t have all the answers in spite of his fancy law degree.

“Okay, I’m assigning you as my partner on this one,” he said, “and your first assignment is to find out all you can about some politician named Sheldon Cartwright.”

“That’s easy,” he laughed. “Just watch the TV news.”

“I’ve been fishing in New Brunswick for the last two weeks, and you don’t get much Toronto news down there. So is he a big-time politician or what?” Sokalowski asked, uneasily.

“He is now,” Cameron replied. “Yesterday, I’d never heard of this guy myself, but now he’s all over the TV and the newspapers, too. And get this, my wife thinks he’s sexy,” he added.

“He’s probably a faggot like those Hollywood fags. Women seem to go for those guys for some reason or other, but find out what you can Dave. He might be connected to this case.”

“Sure thing, Serg,” Cameron said as he was leaving.

Sokalowski left the office after that, and took one of the unmarked cruisers to his favourite bar in the Pape-Danforth district, entering it through a back door from the parking lot.

“I’ll have a soda pop, Dan,” he announced to the bartender in a fairly loud voice.

“One soda pop coming up, Serg,” Dan replied as he covertly poured a jigger of vodka into a pop can behind the bar.

Sokalowski took it from him, and drank it straight from the can as he idly watched the TV news.

“Holy shit,” he suddenly muttered as an image of Sheldon Cartwright appeared on the screen. “That’s the guy in the photograph. I’d bet my badge on it!”

Suddenly his full attention was riveted on the TV as he watched Cartwright field questions from reporters, and Sokalowski began to recognize the telltale signs of an educated smart ass with all the answers.

“What do you know about this faggot politician, Dan?” Sokalowski asked Dan, as he took another swig of his spiked soda pop.

“Oh, he’s not one of those for sure,” Dan replied. “He’s married to a real nice looker, and they have a couple of nice-looking kids too. I know ‘cause I met them all when he was out campaigning last year. The women are all wetting their drawers over him … my wife included.”

“I still say he’s a smart ass faggot,” Sokalowski said. “Give me another soda pop, Dan.”

 

*          *            *

 

Cartwright left Ottawa directly after question period. He had waited until then to see if the prime minister would respond to his questions, but it was the Minister of Health who fielded all the inquiries—saying that, “The issue was still under investigation.” Therefore, after a three-hour drive he arrived back in Toronto in time to see the children before their bedtimes. He missed them during the week, but that was a sacrifice he had to make at this stage in his political career. Nevertheless, that could change for the better if the leadership came his way.

When the children were in their beds, Susan and he talked about the possibility.

“How do you feel about it?” she asked him.

“I think I can do it, and apparently Michael Manley does too. I also had a chat with Elgin the other day, and he hinted that he might be stepping down,” he replied. “But most of all, I’d like to bring you and the children to Ottawa to be with me.”

“That’s the most appealing part of it for me, too,” she said. “I’m still not certain about the rest of it, but the children and I miss you during the week.”

“Speaking of such things,” he reached over to massage the back of her neck, “I believe we have some togetherness to catch up on.”

“I thought you would never ask,” she laughed as she wrapped her arms around him.

They then retired to their bedroom to make love, hungrily savouring this cherished moment of fulfilment that they had both been deprived of while he was in Ottawa, and after a brief pause they repeated it once again.

Apart from missing his family, this was the other reason he sometimes regretted his role as a federal politician. He was an innately sexual person at the height of his sexual drive, and masturbation was a rather poor substitute at his age. Nevertheless, circumstances forced him to indulge in it at least once or twice a day while he was away.

The next morning he ate breakfast with the family before he made a routine visit to his constituency office. At first he thought that this would only involve a few hours of his time, but when he arrived there he was inundated with callers and well wishers on account of his TV exposure. Many of these freely admitted that they had not supported him at the last election, but they had become firm supporters in the meantime. There were also several reporters representing the smaller weekly newspapers, so it was well after lunchtime before he finally called a halt to it.

“No more calls today,” he told Ms Harmon, his constituency office manager.

“I think you might want to take this one,” she said as she handed him a note with a name scrawled on it. “There’s a detective on hold.”

“A detective …” he remarked. “What the devil does he want with me?”

“He didn’t say, but he says it’s important.”

“Oh, very well,” he sighed, “I’ll take it inside.”

He then returned to his inner office to pick up the receiver. “Cartwright here,” he announced. “How can I help you detective, uh … Sokalowski?” he read from the note.

“Actually, it’s Sergeant Sokalowski,” the voice on the other end corrected him rather brusquely. “I’m investigating the homicide of a man named Trace Colborn, and I believe you may have known him at some point in the past. Is that correct?”

Cartwright was stunned. “What makes you think that?” he asked somewhat warily.

“Your name was found among his personal effects. In fact, he appears to have been quite a fan of yours. So did you ever have any contact with him?”

“Well, I did go to elementary school with a Trace Colborn,” he admitted. “But that was nearly twenty years ago.”

“Have you seen him since?”

Cartwright thought for a moment before answering. “Once… when I was attending university,” he admitted. “He came into a restaurant where I was working, but that was several years ago as well.”

The mention of the word “university” resounded in Sokalowski’s subconscious like a discordant note, and his dislike for Cartwright grew on account of it. Nevertheless, he was a cop and he had a case to solve. Besides, he wanted to see the look on Cartwright’s smart-ass face when he confronted him with his nude photograph.

“I quite understand, and I can assure you that you’re not a suspect at present,” he said with deceptive civility. “But I would like to meet with you anyway. You’re the only one we know of so far that has any personal knowledge of the victim, and it might help us in the investigation.”

“Well, it can’t be this weekend,” Cartwright stalled to give himself some time to think. “I only get to see my wife and kids on weekends, and this one is nearly half over,” he added.

“In that case, I’ll come to your office,” Sokalowski suggested.

“In Ottawa…?” he asked rather incredulously.

“Sure. It’s only a few hours down the highway, and I’d like to get a start on this investigation as soon as possible.”

“Suit yourself,” Cartwright shrugged. “Check with my Ottawa secretary first.”

Sokalowski bristled at being shuffled off to a secretary, but he said goodbye politely enough.

Cartwright had an uneasy feeling about this conversation, especially since it involved a part of his life that he wanted to remain buried in time. That had taken place nearly twelve years ago, and he had moved on since then. Nonetheless, he felt somewhat ill at ease as left the office to pick up Susan and the children for a dinner at Carmen’s Steak House.

Carmen’s was an intimate setting with waiters in black bow ties, and a maître d' who knew them all when they entered. The children revelled in the idea of being treated as adults, and it gave him the opportunity to impart some proper table manners while dining out—although it was sometimes quite a challenge.

“Anything interesting happen at the office today?” Susan asked him while they were eating.

He considered telling her about Sokalowski’s telephone call, but decided against it to avoid any questions regarding Trace Colborn.

“It certainly was busy enough,” he replied, instead. “It’s all the television exposure I’ve been getting lately. I also picked up quite a few new supporters and gave some press interviews, but other than that it was fairly routine.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about this leadership thing,” she went on, “and if you really want to go for it, I think you should.”

He suddenly stopped chewing a mouthful of asparagus au fromage bleu. “When did you decide that?” he asked when his mouth was empty.”

“Actually, I decided it while we were in bed last night,” she smiled, meaningfully. “But I wanted to talk it over with Lisa and Wally before I said anything. They’re both in agreement, too,” she added in passing.

“Yah, dad. It’s really neat seeing you on TV, and all the fuss Lisa and me get when we’re out campaigning with you,” Wally piped up.

“Oh lord,” he said, “I think we’re raising another politician.”

“Now that’s where I definitely draw a line,” she laughed. “One in the family is quite enough for now.”

They finished their respective meals, and after the children were tucked in their beds at home, he and Susan made love again while they had the opportunity.

“Are you really certain you want to go through another campaign?” he asked her while they were cuddling together, afterward.

“Wither thou goest, I will go,” she said, quoting from Ruth in the Bible. “It’s a reasonable enough price to pay if the rest of us get to come to Ottawa with you.”

“I really do love you,” he laughed admiringly, as he smothered her with kisses before they made love once again.

He left for Ottawa early Monday morning, and arrived in the capital around mid morning. He then went directly to his office to prepare for the day.

“A detective Sokalowski called from Toronto, and he wants to meet with you tomorrow morning if that’s alright.” Monique told him when he arrived.

He certainly doesn’t waste any time, he mused to himself. “Yes, that will be fine … make it around eleven o’clock,” he told her.

The rest of the day was busy but uneventful. He caught up on some correspondence, attended the afternoon session of the House for a while, and then participated in a committee meeting afterward. However, all the while the pending meeting with Sokalowski remained in the back of his mind. Why did he want to meet him personally when everything he was prepared say could be said over the telephone? And what was so important that Sokalowski was willing to drive all the way to Ottawa to discuss it? Cartwright had no answers, but it made him feel uneasy just the same.

The next morning he worked in his office, glancing at the clock until just before eleven when the intercom sounded. “Sergeant Sokalowski and a Detective Cameron to see you, Mr. Cartwright,” Monique announced.

“Show them in, Monique,” he replied as his breathing began to quicken.

This is silly, he chastised himself. I had nothing to do with Trace’s death, so why should I be feeling nervous? Nevertheless, he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of foreboding that hovered over him as he stood to receive them.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Sokalowski said to him as he introduced Dave Cameron as well. Sokalowski was much like what a cop was supposed to look like—big, stocky, and with short-cropped hair that was slightly greying. On the other hand, Cameron was somewhat smaller with a more pleasant expression compared to Sokalowski’s bulldog-like features.

“May I offer you a coffee?” Cartwright asked to gain some time to relax before the interview began.

They accepted, and the three of them chatted for a while before Sokalowski got around to business. “How long did you know Colborn, altogether?” he asked.

“Not long. Perhaps a year when we went to school together, and no more than two when we met again in Toronto.”

“Is that when this was taken?” Sokalowski asked as he suddenly produced the photograph and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

Taken entirely off guard, Cartwright stared at his own nude image in stunned silence. He well remembered the time and circumstances under which it had been captured, but he had never actually seen the photograph until now.

“How should I know?’ he replied, elusively. “I’ve never seen this photograph before.”

“I’d say he bears a striking resemblance to you,” Sokalowski pressured him. “So what’s the story behind it?”

“A lot of people resemble someone else, so that doesn’t mean it’s me.”

“Oh, c’mon Cartwright!” Sokalowski blustered. “I’m a cop, and I’m trained to recognize identifying features. You’ve got the same colour hair, the same eyes, and the same nose and mouth … the whole nine yards. I’d be willing stake my badge on it that the kid in the picture is you, so what’s the story behind it?”

“What does this photograph have to do with Trace Colborn’s death?” Cartwright asked instead.

“We found it at the scene of the crime, all neatly packaged with a bunch of newspaper clippings about you,” Cameron spoke up, “That’s why we think you’re the boy in that photograph, but all we’re trying to do is get a lead for now. So, if Colborn liked boys it’s no big deal to us, but it might give us a direction to follow. So how about it?”

Cartwright considered his proposal for a moment, but then he dismissed it as being a slippery slope.

“Look, gentleman. The deal I made with Sergeant Sokalowski was to tell you what I know about Trace Colborn. There was absolutely no mention of any provocative photograph involved, so it is not on the agenda as far as I’m concerned.”

“Have you ever heard of an offence called ‘refusal to cooperate with a police officer in the course of an investigation?’” Sokalowski asked. “If I have to I’ll use it, and then you can tell your story in front of a judge.”

Far from being intimidated by Sokalowski’s threat, Cartwright was incensed by his attitude. “Have you ever heard of a law suit called ‘false arrest?’” he retorted coolly. “I’ve already told you that I’m prepared to cooperate as far as our agreement is concerned, so what refusal are you talking about?”

“Hey guys, this is getting us nowhere,” Cameron interrupted. “Serg, can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

Cameron then excused himself politely—but not Sokalowski, and the two of them left the office for a private conference. Meanwhile, Cartwright bided his time nervously waiting to see what they were hatching outside. Nevertheless, to admit his part in that photograph could spell the end of his political career. Not only that, but it could wreak havoc on his marriage as well. Therefore, he would resist any compromise on that point until he had carefully considered all the possibilities.

Presently Cameron and Sokalowski returned, and this time Cameron did most of the talking. “We have a deal for you, Mr. Cartwright,” he said. “We realize that this picture wouldn’t go over too well with your voters, so the Serg and I will give you our words that whatever you tell us will stay between the three of us.”

“Not good enough,” Cartwright replied. “Before I could do any talking about it at all … which is not to say I will, I’d want that agreement in writing and my lawyer involved as well.”

Cameron glanced at his boss for an answer to this. Sokalowski yearned to tell this smart-ass, faggot politician to suck his dick first, but he needed the information that only he could provide. Otherwise, this case was going nowhere.

“I’ll have to talk to the Deputy Chief about that,” was all he said.

They next went on to talk about Cartwright’s memories of Trace Colborn, which Cartwright carefully edited for their ears. However, at one point Sokalowski interrupted him to ask if Colborn was a “faggot.”

“Do you mean a homosexual?” Cartwright asked rather pointedly.

“Homo … faggot … they’re all the same to me. Was he one of those?”

“I’m not certain what his sexuality was,” Cartwright replied. “We didn’t discuss it.”

“But why would he keep a picture of you sporting a hard-on for all these years? Were you two getting it on, or something?”

By this time Cartwright had had enough of Sokalowski’s attitude. “I believe this interview has just come to an end, gentlemen,” he said as he stood to emphasize his point. “If you need to talk to me again you can do it through my lawyer. My secretary will give you his name and number on your way out.”

They both stared at him for a moment, but complied. Cameron paused to shake his hand before he left, but Sokalowski merely glared at him as he went out the door.

When they were both gone, Cartwright called Monique on the intercom. “See if you can get Thomas Hatfield at his law office in Toronto, and you may have to reschedule my appointments for tomorrow,” he added.

There was a slight pause while she thought about these two related occurrences. “And what should I tell the Governor General if he happens to call?” she asked, jokingly.

“Tell him I’m off to London to see the Queen,” he laughed. “But don’t worry. I’m not headed for a chain gang anytime soon.”

“That’s a relief,” she replied.

A few minutes later the intercom sounded again, and Cartwright reached for the telephone. “Hello, Thomas.”

“Yes, Sheldon,” he answered in a cultured English accent. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s rather complicated to explain over the telephone, Tom. Can we get together as soon as possible?”

“Yes, of course. As a matter of fact I’ll be coming to Ottawa tomorrow. I have a case before the Supreme Court on Thursday, so I’ll be staying over. How about dinner?”

“That would be excellent,” he agreed. “It will also avoid any questions about an unscheduled visit to Toronto. I want to keep this hush-hush.”

“Oh, dear, it does sound complicated,” Hatfield said. “I’ll give you a call when I arrive and we’ll discuss over dinner.”

They said their goodbyes, and Cartwright busied himself intensely to keep his mind occupied for the remainder of the day. In the House the prime minister finally made a statement regarding the leaked health report by rejecting its authenticity, but he assured the Speaker that the government was “addressing” the issue. This caused a flurry of media activity that Cartwright welcomed under the circumstances, and as a result it was fairly late by the time he got back to his apartment.

It was only then that his thoughts returned to his meeting with Sokalowski and Cameron, and also the clandestine photograph in particular. He had not wanted to pose for it in the first place, but Trace and circumstances had dictated otherwise. In hindsight it had obviously been a mistake, but at the time it seemed like a necessary means to an end. Moreover, there was also a honourable element to it as well.

This latter thought set him reflecting back to his childhood, and the solemn promise he had made to his mother at the time.