Sunday, 30 July
2343 hours

"5106, in 9’s area. See the complainant at the corner of George and Britain. He believes he’s found a body in a dumpster."

The cop driving the scout car chuckled. "A body in a dumpster. How clichéd."

"Interesting, at least," the cop in the passenger seat replied. "You think it’ll tie us up for the rest of the night?"

Paul Townsend grinned at his passenger, white teeth flashing in an ebony–black face. "I keep forgetting you’re still kind of new to this, Jacky–boy. If it’s a homicide, we’ll be lucky to be out of here on time this morning."

Jack Warren, recently of 32 Division, frowned self–consciously, embarrassed he had asked such a rookie question. "Well, you don’t get a lot of calls involving dead bodies up in 32."

Paul snorted. "If it’s dead bodies you want, you’ve come to the right place. Stay in 51 long enough and you’ll soon lose count of how many you see." Paul Townsend had been in 51 for three years now and some of the stories he had told Jack over the past week were hard to believe.

Jack nodded noncommittally and turned his attention to the life on the downtown sidewalks passing by the police car. Almost midnight on a Sunday night and the streets were still busy as if it was six hours earlier. But it was a different busy from what he was used to. Six years as a Toronto police officer and he had just discovered in the past week how little he knew about being a cop.

He was used to university students and young professionals out for a night of partying, young guys full of too much testosterone cruising the asphalt in their street racers, simple trouble looking for a place to happen. Oh, sure, 32 Division had its problem spots, notably the Jungle, a sprawling government housing complex in the city’s north end, but nothing compared to this.

51 Division was another world entirely from the North York communities Jack had patrolled for six years. Drugs and violence, that’s what his old staff sergeant had warned him he would find downtown. Nothing but drugs and violence. The old guy had been right; drugs and violence pretty much summed up the small division.

And Jack loved it.

They cruised by the large Salvation Army hostel — or the Sally Ann, as Jack had learned to call it — and Paul automatically slowed down to scan the faces by the front steps. Jack kept his attention focused on his side of the street, watching the people in front of the Moss Park community centre. That was the first new skill he had had to develop upon coming to 51. Jack had moved from an area that had little street–level crime; he had to learn how to scan a crowd for the people who casually turned their faces away, for hands sliding into pockets or behind backs.

Watch the hands, Paul had told him the first night they had worked together, the night Jack had learned how little he knew. Watch for the exchange of drugs or money. Watch for the ones trying to hide. Look for the ones getting ready to run, waiting to see if you slow down. Watch, watch, watch.

"Streets are busy tonight," Jack said without taking his eyes from them.

"Always are on a summer night. Busy, busy, busy."

Jack grinned and slowly shook his head in mild disbelief. "What a difference," he whispered out the open window.

"What’s that, Jacky–boy?"

"Nothing, really. Just thinking how different it is down here. I mean, if this call had come across in 32, we’d be flying there, lights and sirens, and just about everybody would be jumping on the call."

"Just another dead body, man. Nothing special."

Sure ain’t in Kansas anymore, Jack thought. Paul had three years less on the job than Jack, making Jack the senior man in the car. Technically, at least. But three years in 51 were a whole lot different from double that in 32. Just another dead body.

"That must be our man," Paul announced.

Jack snapped out of his reverie.

Paul had turned the car onto George, a small street running south off Queen. Jack saw a mixture of old buildings and converted warehouses. A man in a business suit was frantically waving at them from the end of Britain Street where it T–intersected with George. Paul pulled up short of the man to let Jack get out. If you don’t know what’s going on, don’t let anyone walk up to the car window, Paul had instructed him. Fewer nasty surprises that way.

Jack rolled up his window, catching a faint image of himself in the glass. Dark brown hair, cut regulation short, and a clean–shaven, unremarkable face that looked its twenty–eight years. He had been told he looked like a cop, but he always figured it was the uniform people responded to, not the person wearing it. The uniform represented different things to different people and right now Jack was betting it meant safety to one hell of a nervous guy.

"Oh, thank God, you’re here. It’s over there," the man said, gesturing down Britain Street. With his other hand, he clutched a cell phone the way a drowning man would hold on to a life preserver.

Jack stopped out of arm’s reach and casually rested his forearms on his gun butt and double magazine pouches. A nice, relaxed stance that just happened to keep his hands in front and his gun side turned away from whomever he was speaking with. The interview stance, they called it in the college, but Jack thought of it as the 51 stance. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone, including himself, use it in 32. Just another dead body.

"What’s over there, sir?" Jack asked as he studied the complainant. Mid–thirties, what was left of his hair dishevelled as if he’d been running his hands through it and a business suit as dishevelled as his hair.

"The body. In the dumpster." The man in the suit pointed down the street again then turned to face Jack. Big, frightened eyes.

"Why were you looking in a dumpster?" Paul asked as he joined them on the sidewalk, standing a short distance from Jack. Never stand next to each other, Paul had instructed. Never present a single target unless you know who you are talking to. The man turned to Paul and took an involuntary step backward. "Calm down, sir. We’re here to help." Standing six–five with a bodybuilder’s mass and a complexion he liked to call "midnight black," Paul was accustomed to making people nervous. Hell, even Jack, at five–ten and just fifteen pounds shy of two hundred from hitting the gym regularly, had been nervous the first time they met.

"Sir” Why were you in the dumpster?" Jack asked, drawing the man’s attention.

"Oh, uh, I’m an architect and I was looking for some cardboard tubes to take some drawings home to work on. That’s when I found them." He shivered.

On a hot summer night, he shivered, and Jack realized the man wasn’t scared, he was downright terrified. "Them” I thought you had found one body."

"No, not a body," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "At least … I don’t know. Maybe."

"Maybe” Sir, I need you to slow down, take a deep breath and tell us what you found in the dumpster." Jack spoke slowly, using his voice to calm the complainant.

It worked. For a moment. Business Suit took a deep breath, held it, then it all gushed out. "Feet! I found a pair of human feet in the dumpster."