Suspect is warned

Holdback, Ep. 2: "R. v. Todd (1901)"

Hello Hexagoners.

If you’re not a fan of police procedural crime drama skip this and wait for next Sunday’s essay. (And if you have an idea what next Sunday’s essay should be about, drop me a line.)

Previously…

In Episode 1, Johnny Gordon was found dead on a sidewalk with a bullet hole in his forehead. Ross, the police constable first on the scene, questioned those who had gathered around the body. All said they did not know the dead man. Among them was Donald Todd.

Suspect is warned

ROSS TOLD STODGELL TO DROP IT, told him Chief McRae was in a piss mood, told him bang dead to rights the cook was the killer. Stodgell barged into the chief’s office anyway. “Todd’s lying,” he said. “He and Gordon were bosom tight.”

McRae wasn’t listening. He was opening and closing drawers. Opening one, peering in, not finding the whiskey bottle he was looking for, muttering something under his breath, opening another, still not finding the whiskey, slamming it shut, muttering something else.

Clearly, the man needed a drink. But he wasn’t a drunk. He was an officer of the court and a warden of the Lodge, straight as a die since the days he walked beat and Winnipeg was a lawless scatter of shacks. Before that, he had been a soldier, wounded at the Battle of Batoche, part of the force that caught Riel and chased Dumont into Montana. When he became chief, sure, he took his bit off the top. As was expected. He was a representative of the Crown, he did people favours, they reciprocated. An example—after he closed down the southside houses and told the madams about the new plan for Thomas Street, he tipped off John Beaman, a real estate agent and a Grand Warden of the Lodge. Beaman snapped up all the houses and sold them to the madams at ten times their market price. And then, as per, gave Chief McRae his cut. As did the madams, who were more than willing to pay for the privilege of setting up police-protected shops. That was how it worked and how it was supposed to work.

But now, after a decade of dutiful service, he was to be replaced in a month by an Easterner named Hancock. “A real detective, who uses scientific methods,” according to the man who was “retiring” him, Beaman’s stooge, the new mayor, the Reverend Owen Griffith Evans, a pint-sized Anglican priest and convicted abortionist who called himself a social purity reformer. Evans won the half-rigged election by promising to close at least half the city’s bawdy houses and speakeasies. As everyone knew, he had a hand in most of the other half.

And now, to top it, an unsolvable murder. So, yes, Clarence McRae needed and deserved a drink. Not the speculations of a greenhorn like Stodgell. Not the—

Bottom cabinet drawer. McRae cracked the seal.

“Todd’s either your murderer, sir, or he knows who is,” said Stodgell. “Why else would he deny knowing Gordon?”

“Maybe because he’s a drunken English halfwit halfbreed,” said the Chief, draining the first glass and slamming the drawer shut with his foot. Then, remembering that Stodgell was from St James and probably Countryborn himself, like most everyone else from that ward, added, “Look, Stodge, you’re ambitious, that’s good, but you’ve been on the force what, two months?”

“Six.”

“And unless I’m mistaken you’ve never taken the detective exam.”

“No. Sir.”

“You’re a beat cop, Stodge,” said McRae. “So beat it.”

The coroner gave an open verdict at the inquest. Todd was a witness. So was the cook, Carris. So was Ross—Stodgell covered his shift. “What the hell does open mean?” Stodgell asked. “He died of a .38 slug in the head.”

“It means there wasn’t enough evidence to know who put it there,” said Ross.

“What did Todd say?”

“Same as what he said at the scene. Didn’t know it was a dead man. Thought it was just a drunk sleeping on a sidewalk.”

“They believe him?”

“Man was grinning and relaxed, Stodge. Had his girl with him and half the family. And an alibi. He was at his cousin’s when the gunshot was heard.”

“He had the man’s blood on his clothes,” Said Stodgell.

“From checking Gordon’s pulse,” said Ross.

“He was Gordon’s best friend. They’d been tight since grade school. So why say he didn’t know him?”

“So why kill him? Smart money’s on the cook, Stodge.”

Stodgell took the new streetcar to St James after his shift. He hadn’t been to the ward since the trams started running. Since joining the force. Since his grandfather died. Todd had been at the funeral. Their families were connected, but Stodgell forgot how. What he did remember was in school, before they both dropped out, Todd beat up Stodgell’s younger brother and took his bike. When Stodgell came to reclaim it, Todd sucker-smacked him with a lacrosse stick, pinned him to the ground with it, and dropped a hawked-up string of spit into his mouth. The other kids laughed. So did Todd, until Stodgell nutted him, broke his nose, and took the bike back. There was bad blood but nothing else between them after that. Todd hadn’t grown an inch since, Stodgell was now twice his size. And a cop. Who was investigating him for murder.

He started at the Notre Dame. The manager, Gussie Davis, an African giantess, told him Todd and Gordon had been there with a woman named Lila, dark-haired, thin, from Iceland, worked for Goldie Jones on Rachel Street. A quarrel started. Todd pulled a gun. Lila intervened. Todd knocked Johnny down and left. The manager couldn’t say what type of gun it was.

Later, at the Queensland, they quarrelled again. And again at the old Galt house. And then at the Clarendon, where Todd bought a bottle of whiskey and gave it to Johnny, who was later seen taking swigs from it while buying two pairs of underwear in a store on Portage, and then sitting down on the sidewalk about half a mile up, near where he was shot, his head resting on his hands, the bundle by his side.

Neither the bottle nor the bundle were found near his corpse.

Todd went to his uncle’s place about half a mile further up Portage. He left there with his sister around 7 p.m. to go back to town. Then he went home.

Home was Grey Hallett’s house near Deer Lodge. Hallett’s was Todd’s cousin. He told Stodgell that Gordon and Todd had quarrelled on the street that evening in front of Todd’s sister.

Stodgell questioned the sister, who he knew from the neighbourhood, but hadn’t seen since they were kids. He barely recognized her. Bone thin, broken. “Talk to this Lila girl, Stodge,” she said. “She knows what happened. I was with them later and I would have saved Johnny’s life if I could—” she let that slip, then caught herself and refused to say anything else.

Hallett thought it would be good fun to joke with Donny about the murder, so he invited Stodgell over for cards. “Donny’ll be there. Bring liquor. He’s a talker if he’s had a few.” Stodgell brought two flasks. A man named Smith brought a half-pint. They played euchre. “How you feeling, Donny?” Stodge asked. He’d matched him drink for drink. “I’m feeling good, Eli, and I ain’t scared of you or any man. Let’s talk straight.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Not here. Outside.”

Stodgell slipped a gun into his pocket and followed Todd unsteadily out onto the porch.

“You after me, Stodge?” said Todd.

“Why would I be after you?”

“For the murder of Johnny Gordon.”

Stodgell passed him a flask. “You shoot him, Donny?”

Todd lunged. Stodgell sidestepped and Todd fell and Stodgell put his knee in the small of his back and his gun to the side of his head. “You shoot him, Donny?”

“I’ve shot men, Eli, and I’d shoot you without fucking blinking, but whatever is in my breast is staying right there forever.”

Stodgell helped Todd to his feet. “You might as well know it then. I’m after you. And I’ll get you.” They went back into the house and finished the flasks and opened the bottle and played cards as if nothing had happened until Hallett’s wife said it was time to quit and Hallett said, “It’s late, Stodge. You should stay the night. You can share Donny’s bed.” He laughed and blew out the lights.

The two men undressed and got under the covers. Stodgell immediately pretended to fall asleep, but through the night he lay watching Todd through half-lidded eyes. He saw Todd take a .32 from his pocket and place it on the bedside table. Several times through the night he saw Todd lean over and peer down at him, trying to see if he was asleep. Each time, Stodgell’s fingers tightened on his gun under the blanket.

Morning came. Todd lay in bed with his eyes closed till he heard Stodgell shut the front door. He got dressed, checked the chambers of his gun, and followed.

Upcoming

The Inventions of Goya 
Chapter 9
Wednesday, January 31, 2024

Hexagon 
(TBD)
Sunday, February 4, 2024

EODJ (aka Soaking Wet February)
Cave à Michel, Paris
Thursday, February 1, 2024 (20:00-24:00)

Holdback
Episode 3
Sunday, February 10, 2024

"The Hidden Vineyards of Paris" book launch with Geoffrey Finch & Paris Wine Walks
The Red Wheelbarrow, Paris
Thursday, February 29, 2024 (tba)

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