Part 1

 

It was 1974 in Ottawa, and inside the otherwise staid 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 various activities the members were making a good showing for their constituents back home. Nevertheless there was an underlying current of disappointment that the prime minister had not yet taken his seat, for without him the proceedings 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 allotted 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 topple the governing Liberal Reform Party in the next election. Without the prime minister to aim it at, however, 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. Nevertheless, 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 credentials. Consequently, he had been elected on the strength of his boyish good looks and wholesome family-man image as much as anything else.

He nevertheless 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 the relative obscurity of a back bencher to the Party’s Health and Environment Critic.[1] In addition, there was also some speculation that he might one day replace Elgin MacDonald as leader of the Social Democrats.

 “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, and 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 at all, for any day he could debate the prime minister was a highlight of it. He was also well suited with a graduate 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 the 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 concerns expressed by the Premier of Alberta 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. Nevertheless, 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, and to give him recognition.

“Madame Speaker, since the Minister of Health is absent today, I will address my question directly 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 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 one 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.

Now assured of everyone’s attention, Cartwright 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 by the Ministry of Health, dated April 16th, 1972, which 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 across the prime minister’s face as the confident smile slowly faded from his lips. At the same time there was a sudden flurry in the press gallery as the parliamentary 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 lain hidden in the bowels of the Health Department for over two years? Or failing that, can he tell us why his government … knowing the risk, mind you … 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, thinking as he did so. “As I have stated previously, Madame Speaker, I am unaware of the report to which the Honourable Member refers; 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 both English and French, and from the steps surrounding her dais the parliamentary pages stirred like a flock of black chicks to accompany her as she arose to indicate her authority over the proceedings.

“Supplementary!” Cartwright 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. I will therefore 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 the prime minister 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 clap Cartwright on the back, enthusiastically, 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. It was to be regretted that 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. Cartwright realized that within the House he was merely one voice against the government’s entrenched majority, but outside it he could appeal directly to the public through the media—the way he had overcome the government’s candidate to win his seat in parliament. He therefore 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.

Being the most politically-charged of the three, he ignored the first two questions to latch onto the third. “In my opinion … and based on the Ministry of Health’s own opinion, as well … this is a major health hazard,” he responded, holding up a copy of the leaked report to dramatize 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 predominantly Native people living along the Nigamo and Kchimong Rivers are in grave and imminent danger. Yet, these very same people 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, quite deliberately ignoring the ministerial chain of responsibility to strike directly to the top. He then began to move on when he was confronted by one of the veteran, parliamentary correspondents.

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

The question took him by surprise, being so out of context, but he quickly regained his poise. “That’s news to me,” he responded as he stepped inside the waiting elevator. He then left the Centre Block by way of the tunnel that connects the Centre Block to the West Wing and his 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, the previous year, 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 inimical fashion.

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

Manley nodded, all the while methodically drawing on his pipe. “You must miss them … being in Ottawa most of the time, I mean.”

“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 smiled in response. “Too bad you couldn’t move them here … but I suppose that would be rather difficult on a regular member’s salary,” he added as if answering his own question.

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

“I quite understand,” Manley continued puffing methodically. “Now, if you were leader you’d have a large portion of your accommodation paid for.”

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

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

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 within the party, his choice would likely prevail in the end.

Sheldon had not seriously considered the role of leader 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? If Manley thinks I can do it, then I’m willing to give it a shot, he thought as he continued on. I’ll speak to Susan about it.

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

Presently he was interrupted by the sound of the intercom.

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

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

Immediately he picked up the receiver a dark, 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 replied, obviously ignoring Cartwright’s question. “There’s somethin’ in there about Trace that might interest ya.”

“Trace...?” Cartwright asked in surprise.

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

Although he hadn’t seen or heard from him for years, Cartwright did indeed remember Trace Colborn, and he was suddenly on his guard. “How did you know I knew Trace?”

“That’s for me t’ know and you t’ find out ...just read the newspapers ,” the sinister-sounding stranger 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. The Telegram, Toronto Star, and Globe and Mail.”

“Bring them in please, Monique. 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 below a story of a missing engineer from Rosedale, and bore the headline: Homicide suspected in Cabbagetown fire.

 

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

 

Although police have not yet confirmed the identity, building superintendent Howard 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 strewn in the hallway outside the apartment, leading police to speculate that robbery may have been a motive. Police also say it appears that a flammable substance was used to conceal the victim’s identity.

 

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 hulking figure standing over him in that remote schoolyard in Pefferlaw. He had always tried to dominate Cartwright with his formidable size and strength, and even more so when they had met again as teenagers in Toronto. He wondered, therefore, how anyone could have overpowered him. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised him 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 out loud. “The PM’s principal secretary no less … yes, put him through, Monique.”

He then answered the call with a somewhat bemused expression 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 to House this afternoon? We’d like to compare it to ours … to verify its authenticity, 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 a copy.

“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 next 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. The PMO probably wants the R.C.M.P. to go over it for evidence.”

“I’ll give them the tenth copy, then,” she laughed again. “But the reporters are beginning to call as well. 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, but see if you can get Susan on the line for me.”

He then settled down to work until the intercom buzzed, signalling that Susan was waiting to speak to him, and so 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.”

“It is, but that was fast work,” he remarked in amazement. “So what did you think of it?”

“You looked great, and some political commentators are remarking on how well you handled the situation.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

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

 There was a noticeable pause at the other end. “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 is looking at me. What do you think of the 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 conceded. “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?”

They then went on to discuss family matters before saying their goodbyes with love and kisses. Following that he gathered his remaining work into a briefcase, and left Monique to cope with the increasing 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 a leadership possibility coming out of it. He therefore 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 issue 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 also 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 governing Liberal Reform Party, representing a rural riding in Saskatchewan, but their friendship had grown 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?”

“A helluva lot better than the PM, I can tell you,” he chuckled. “He’s fit to be tied, and he’s put the whole party on damage control. 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 with a certain amount of satisfaction. “But I don’t think we should be seen together for a while. Not until the PM settles down.”

“What … Not even for beers?”

“Not in public, anyway. Ottawa is full of eyes, and I’m only thinking of you.”

“Yah. I guess you’re right,” Colin finally conceded. “Otherwise, I could 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 settled down to business.

“So where should we go from here with this health 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 great job of getting the ball into the air, but now you should handle it at the leadership level to keep the pressure on the PM.”

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

“I also think Elgin should take it over,” another non-elected adviser chimed in. “This health issue should be seen as a party position … 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 still Manley continued to puff on 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 thi 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 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 that direction.

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, capturing everyone’s attention. “He’s the party’s critic on such matters, and it also appears that whoever leaked that report chose 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. MacDonald would be there to show the party’s overall support, but Cartwright would be the spokesman regarding the report.

Cartwright then returned to his own office and closeted himself inside while he prepared for what he realized would be the most important performance of his career. Consequently, he decided to follow Michael Manley’s advice about keeping the government’s feet to the fire wherever possible, and following that he discussed his plan with Elgin MacDonald before they proceeded to the press conference.

The fairly spacious committee room was already crowded with reporters and television cameras 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 both 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. Sheldon therefore 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 eventually flowed onto 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. As a consequence the reporters 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 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 a nemesis in you. So what are your plans for the future? Are you going to stay in politics?”

“I think so, for as long as I feel I’m making a contribution. But if I ever lose that feeling 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 thinking of stepping aside. However, he had learned that nothing in politics was ever stated outright, and so he chose not to pursue it.

When he left MacDonald’s office he returned to his own rooms for a while, and then decided to treat himself to a restaurant meal for a change. He then left his office to wander aimlessly along the granite-lined Rideau Canal until he spied a small restaurant that appealed to him. It was one of those Parisian-style bistros that served continental dishes with a flourish, and so he entered inside just as his face appeared on the television monitor over the bar. It was too early for the dinner crowd, and so the maître d' was watching it intently before he noticed Cartwright standing inside. He first did a sort of double-take, and then 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 so it is my very great plaisir to welcome you this evening.”

Cartwright was somewhat taken aback by his 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 interest.

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

“We are still trying to determine the authenticity of this 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 whole matter very seriously.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cartwright muttered to himself, but at the same time he recognized the prime minister’s wily strategy at play. He would muddle the issue by casting doubt on the report’s authenticity—the one thing that Sheldon couldn’t prove.  It was an old political strategy: When cornered, obfuscate, Sheldon muttered to himself.

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

“Yes. I’ll have a brandy, please. And make it a double,” 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 chain. He attributed this lack of advancement to a relatively recent policy of promoting the younger, better-educated candidates over longevity. This wasn’t just his imagination at work. It was something he had been told several times in the past.

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

This vexation was in the back of his mind as he attended 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. The fire department found his body over in Cabbagetown the other night. These are the crime scene photos, and a copy of the coroner’s report,” he said at the same time. “A crowbar was also found at the scene, too, but I’ve sent it over to forensics for analysis. However, apart from this box of miscellaneous items found outside his apartment, 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 case … but I’ll be here if you need me,” he rubbed it in.

Smart-ass, Sokalowski thought to himself. I’ll teach you, sonny Jim. 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 vicious attack, for it appeared that the victim’s features had been bludgeoned beyond recognition before the body was partially torched.

Why the double whammy? Sokalowski 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 that caught his eye was something that looked like a fairly new photograph album. However, there was only one photograph inside—a black-and-white image of naked youth of about sixteen years of age. His hair was cut in a style that had gone out of popularity in the late 1950s, and he was fully erect. 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. He then reached for the telephone and dialled the secretary he shared with three 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 would I know? I’ve just come back from vacation, 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 as well.

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 or signature, 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 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 the 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 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. Probably from the crowbar we found at the scene.”

“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 it?”

“It was scattered around outside the apartment.”

“Like it was dropped when the assailant fled?”

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

“How do you figure that?”

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

Sokalowski thought about this theory for a moment, but it didn’t make sense. In fact, nothing about this case was made much sense. Nevertheless, he was determined to crack it in order 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 the 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 one of those faggots, then … Like that Hollywood fag, Rock Hudson. For some reason women seem to go for those types.”

“I didn’t know Rock Hudson was a fag,” Cameron reacted with surprise.

“Well he is. An L.A. detective told me so when I was at a convention in Atlantic City. So find out what you can about this Cartwright guy. I’ve got a hunch he’s connected to this murder.”

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

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

“I’ll take 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 half-empty 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 to the TV as he watched Cartwright field questions from reporters, and Sokalowski began to recognize the 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 too … 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.” After a three-hour drive, therefore, he arrived back in Toronto in time to see the children before their bedtimes. He missed them during the week, but it was a sacrifice he had to make at this stage of 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 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 terribly during the week.”

“Speaking of missing,” he said as 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, urgently at first, but afterward they repeated it unhurriedly to savour the moment that they had both missed while he was away.

Apart from missing the children, this was the other part of why he sometimes regretted his role as a federal politician. He was an innately sexual person, at the height of his sexual drive, and at his age masturbation was a poor substitute. Nevertheless, he was fiercely loyal to his marriage vows. He had developed this attitude from the vow he had made to his dying mother to complete his university education, which he had done with great hurdles to overcome, and so he considered a vow made to be sacred in his mind. Consequently, he masturbated at least once a day while he was away from home.

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 take an hour or two 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 voted for at the last election, but they had become firm supporters in the meantime. There were also several reporters representing the smaller weekly newspapers, and so it was nearly four o’clock when he finally called a halt to it.

“No more calls today,” he told Ms Harmon, his constituency office manager. “I promised Susan and the children I’d take them to dinner at Carmen’s Steak House tonight.”

“I think you may 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, it appears he was quite a fan of yours. So did you ever have any contact with him?”

Cartwright thought for a moment before answering. “Well, I did attend elementary school with a Trace Colborn,” he admitted. “But that was over twenty years ago.”

“Have you seen or heard from him since?”

“Once… when I was going to university,” he admitted. “He came into a restaurant where I was working, but once again that was several years ago.”

The mention of 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 the 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 who 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 him 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 next week,” Sokalowski suggested.

“In Ottawa…?” he asked somewhat incredulously.

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

“Suit yourself,” Cartwright shrugged. “But check with my secretary for a suitable time. She’s my time keeper,” he joked to ease the formality of it.

Sokalowski bristled at being shuffled off to a mere secretary, but his goodbye sounded pleasant enough to be sincere.

In spite of this Cartwright had an uneasy feeling about the whole conversation, especially since it involved a part of his life that he wanted to remain buried in the past. That was nearly twelve years ago, although it seemed like a life time, and he had moved on since then. He therefore felt somewhat ill at ease as he left the office to shower and dress for a dinner.

Carmen’s Steak House was an intimate setting, housed in a Tudor-style mansion where the waiters wore black ties, and the maître d' knew them all by name when they entered. The children revelled in the idea of being treated as adults, and it gave Sheldon and Susan the opportunity to impart some proper table manners while dining out—something he himself had first learned in this very restaurant.

This protocol included at table conversation, as the British called it. “Anything interesting happen at the office today?” Susan asked him while they were eating.

For a moment he considered telling her about Sokalowski’s telephone call, but decided against it to avoid questions about Trace Colborn.

“It certainly was busy enough,” he replied, instead. “It’s mostly due to all the television exposure I’ve been getting lately. I did pick up quite a few new supporters, though.”

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

He suddenly stopped chewing a mouthful of avocado and asparagus salad. “When did you decide that?” he asked after swallowing hard.

“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, almost in passing.

“Yah, dad. It’s really neat seeing you on TV, and I like the fuss we get when we’re out campaigning with you … Lisa and me, I mean,” Wally piped up, remembering to include he sister in the conversation.

“Lisa and I,” Sheldon corrected him somewhat automatically, for all the while he was looking directly into Susan’s eyes with a mixture of love and lust. “I’m nearly speechless,” he admitted, “but we’ll discuss it some more when we get home.”

“Yes, of course,” she smiled seductively. “I had something like that in mind, too.”

They finished their respective meals, and after the children were tucked into their beds at home, he and Susan went to their bedroom with the large, ugly armoire, a gift from his mother-in-law standing vigil, and they made love again.

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

“Wither thou goest, I will go,” she said, quoting Ruth in the Bible.[2] “It’s a reasonable enough price to pay if the rest of us get to come to Ottawa.”

“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. He wants to meet with you tomorrow morning, if that’s alright.” Monique told him as she handed him his cup of coffee.

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 with him personally when everything he was prepared tell him 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, anxiously 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 murder, 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 on such short notice, Mr. Cartwright,” Sokalowski said quite  disarmingly and introduced Dave Cameron as well.

Sokalowski looked much like what a cop was supposed to look like—big, stocky, and with short-cropped hair, mostly grey. 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 from a briefcase and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

Taken entirely off guard, Cartwright stared at his nude image in stunned silence. He well remembered the time and circumstances under which it had been taken, but until now he had not seen the actual photograph.

“How should I know?’ he replied elusively, trying to maintain a calm exterior. “I’ve never seen this photograph before.”

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

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

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

“What does this photograph have to do with Trace Colborn’s death?” Cartwright hedged, trying gather his wits in the meantime.

“We found it at the scene of the crime, all neatly packaged with a bunch of newspaper stories about you,” Cameron spoke up, “That’s why we think that boy is you. But all we’re trying to do is get a lead. 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?” he coaxed.

Cartwright considered his proposal for a moment. It sounded reasonable coming from Cameron, 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 a provocative photograph, so as far as I’m concerned it’s not on the agenda.”

“Have you ever heard of an offence called ‘refusing to cooperate with a police investigating?’” Sokalowski asked in an ominous tone. “I’ll use it if I have to, and then you can tell your story to a judge.”

Sokalowski’s threat only served to strengthen Cartwright’s determination. After all he had successfully locked horns with the prime minister of Canada, and so no bully cop was going to intimidate him in his own office. “Have you ever heard of a legal suit called ‘false arrest?’” he snapped back. “I’ve already told you that I’m prepared to cooperate as far as our agreement goes, 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 conversation. Meanwhile, Cartwright bided his time staring at the photograph and nervously waiting to see what they were hatching outside. There was one thing for certain, though. If the real story behind the photograph ever came to light, it could spell the end of his political career, not to mention wreak havoc on his marriage. Consequently, secrecy had to be a top priority in any deal they might come up with.

Presently Cameron and Sokalowski returned, and this time Cameron—playing the “good cop” role—did most of the talking. “We have a deal for you, Mr. Cartwright,” he announced, cajolingly. “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.”

Cartwright thought about this for a moment. It was a start, but he didn’t trust Sokalowski. “I’ll consider it,” he replied. “But before I give my okay I want my lawyer involved and a written agreement.”

Sokalowski bristled, visibly. Inside he yearned to grab this smart-ass, faggot politician and slap him into submission, but he needed the information that only he could provide. Otherwise this case was going nowhere, and his opportunity to show the smart-ass deputy would be lost. Therefore, he relented to the least of evils.  “I’ll have to talk to the Deputy Chief about that,” was all he said. “But, in the meantime tell us what you know about Colborn.

They then went on to talk about Cartwright’s recollections 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 homosexual?” Cartwright asked rather pointedly.

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

“I’m not certain what his sexuality was,” he replied, truthfully. “He didn’t discuss it.”

“Then 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, for whom he had developed a through disliking. “I believe this interview has 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 so 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 finally complied. Cameron paused to shake his hand before he left, but Sokalowski merely glared at him before 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 need to reschedule my appointments for tomorrow,” he added.

There was a slight pause while she thought about the events of that morning—the two burly cops, the secret meeting between them, and the request for Hatfield’s name and telephone number. “And what should I tell the Governor General if he calls?” she jokingly asked, hinting for more information.

“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 in the foreseeable future.”

“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, Tom,” he agreed. “It will also avoid questions about an unscheduled visit to Toronto. I want to keep this hush-hush.”

“Oh, dear, it does sound serious,” Hatfield said. “I’ll give you a call when I arrive.”

They said their goodbyes, and Cartwright busied himself intensely to keep his mind occupied until it was time to attend the afternoon session of the House. Unexpectedly, the prime minister finally made a statement regarding the leaked health report, rejecting its authenticity, but he assured the Speaker that the government was “addressing” the issue. This caused an uproar among the Opposition parties, the Social Democrats in particular, as well as a flurry of media interest that Cartwright welcomed under the circumstances. Consequently it was fairly late by the time he got back to his apartment.

His thoughts then returned to the meeting with Sokalowski and Cameron, and also the damning photograph in particular. He had not wanted to pose for it in the first place, but a tangle of circumstances dictated otherwise, and Trace was the enforcer of these. There was also an honourable aspect to it as well.

This latter thought set him reflecting back to a time of innocence, now gone forever, and the solemn promise he had made to his mother at the time.