“Do you understand the conditions of your order?” The jock’s self-comparison almost amuses Peter — the excuse he’s heard a hundred times before. “You’ve been arrested and are under investigation for an offence, actually five offences, but you may or may not be guilty. Do you understand the conditions?”
“Yeah, yeah! How do I get some clothes and my razor? That’s what I’d like to know!”
“I’ll contact Ms. Faro and ask her to gather those items for you. You can check back with me in a couple of days.”
“Oh, I like that. Great service! Tell her I want my workout bag, too, and all my shoes, and the store stock catalogues from last week.” He grasps his big square head in his hands. “Are we just about done here?”
“Soon. I need to take your photograph… if you don’t mind standing there against that height strip on the wall.”
Peter pulls a Polaroid camera from the desk drawer. Oddly enough, Nolin does as he’s asked, although muttering under his breath. Some clients refuse to have their photo taken, and a PO can’t force them into it. But Nolin must be used to having his picture taken, gets a kick out of it maybe. He stands six foot three and glares at Peter through the camera lens.
“Now if you could please sign this reporting slip for Thursday —”
“You mean I’m coming in here twice a week!” He scribbles his name and throws down the pen.
“This week, yes,” Peter says, wondering if Nolin shouldn’t report daily, given the rage he’s in. He admitted to no prior criminal record, which may or may not be true. Either way it means nothing if he ignores the paperwork and seeks out his victim again.
A few months earlier a guy named Kavanaugh did just that — walked from the probation office straight home to take after his wife again with the nearest weapon to hand, a vacuum cleaner pipe, and left her scarred for life. Peter still cringes recalling the case, though he did everything by the book, and Woodgate later made a point of telling him not to blame himself — shit happens. Every time one of these guys slams the office door a probation officer considers the chances, the probability, of some further, maybe final act of violence.
After the client leaves, Peter typically spends another twenty or thirty minutes completing the new bail intake. He reviews the forms, makes a note of any missing information to be filled in at the next report date. He begins the file’s “running record,” with a bare-bones summary of the interview and his impression of the accused, usually a single paragraph. In Nolin’s case Peter fills most of a legal sheet with handwritten notes. The charges indicate far more than the run-of-the-mill bickering and tussle between a couple. Something pushed this guy into the crazy zone. This prompts Peter to call the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s Victim Services for more background.
“Glad you called, Peter,” Maggie McConachie proceeds at her usual breathless pace, easily outstripping him five words to one in their weekly dialogues. She’s good at her job, and Peter has learned to heed her advice. “This was a scary incident. I was petrified for that poor young woman. He held her captive in that apartment for over an hour after the police arrived. We took Ms. Faro straight to the hospital. She had awful bruises, possibly fractured ribs. Nolin didn’t give himself up for another hour after he let her out. He had a handgun, for heaven’s sake! The police didn’t push him, mainly for fear of suicide apparently, though none of them were in any hurry to be busting into the place, I assure you. We haven’t seen the likes of it in this town for a long time.”
“They released this guy on bail? What more do you have to do to be remanded in custody these days?”
“My sentiments exactly, Peter. I think anyone else would have been held.” She lowers her voice to indicate that what she’s saying is off the record.
“What do you mean?”
“You know who he is, don’t you? Todd Nolin. He was drafted by the Buffalo Sabres a few years ago and played for their farm team. He even played part of a season with Buffalo. He came back here about two years ago. Apparently, there’s still an outside chance he could be recalled or picked up by another team. Anyway, he’s about the only local hockey star we’ve had since Dave Borchuk played for the Philadelphia Flyers back in the 1970s, with Bobby Clarke and Bernie Parent.”
“Dave Borchuk?”
“You don’t follow hockey, do you? Borchuk owns BBG, the sports store.”
“Nolin works there.”
“That’s right,” Maggie says. “Getting the picture? Nolin’s the young blood, a local star, and they think he can do no wrong. Even if he is a brute. This isn’t the first time the police have dealt with him.”
“I’ve run him on CDS. He doesn’t appear to have any record.”
“No, but years ago — he must’ve only been seventeen or eighteen — there was a hush-hush investigation. Others didn’t think the victim’s story held up, so nothing came of it. But I interviewed the girl involved.”
“Aha! What was the charge?”
She sighs. “Sexual assault. Listen, I’ll be sitting in on the next interview with Marina Faro, tomorrow or the next day. Some of these cops are about as tactful as pit bulls. Anyway, I’ll fax it to you once it’s been transcribed.”
After they hang up, Peter takes another close look at the photograph attached to Nolin’s file. Something in the guy’s eyes gives him pause.
That same morning Peter picks a note from regional personnel out of his office mail slot: “Due to the current budget freeze no advanced training will be approved until further notice.” His name remains on the eligibility list. He tosses the page into his recycling box with a nasty oath. It means he’ll continue doing all the work of a trained probation officer, yet with no job security and for a fraction of the salary. Or will he? The local newspaper is looking for a reporter, but Peter can’t quite see himself covering town council meetings and bowling tournaments. He might just file a grievance with the union, though he knows that stands a snowball’s chance in hell of helping him.
A little later Woodgate calls out, “Alice?” and Peter drags his feet to the manager’s office. He’s got half a mind to challenge Woodgate on the training issue, especially since the man forecast such an easy progression through the ranks at the hiring interview. But it’s going on two years now, damn it! Peter thinks. Of course, they’ve had the discussion before — three times, actually. Woodgate always waves his gorilla fingers in a helpless gesture toward the top of his bureaucratic pyramid, saying, “You know, the bean counters tell us… What can I say? It’s out of my hands.”
Yeah, Peter thinks now, but it saves this particular office some money, which looks great in Woodgate’s year-end report.
“Your letter from personnel was copied to me,” Woodgate informs Peter when he enters the manager’s office. “Sorry to hear your training’s postponed.”
“Me, too,” Peter replies curtly with all the challenge he can muster at the moment. Maybe he could get a job with the city in park maintenance or dog-catching or something.
“Stick with it and you’ll get there,” Woodgate mutters.
How motivational, Peter thinks, heartwarming really.
“Say, the young guy in your office a while ago, was that Todd Nolin?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s that all about?”
Peter provides a summary.
Woodgate shakes his head. “That boy was a good hockey player. It’s a shame.”
Peter isn’t exactly sure what Big George means by this, nor, at the moment,