“That’s part of their charm!”
I glanced between the two and said, in French, “T’es pas serieux.”
“Crazy like a Coyote!” said Tucker, which I didn’t understand at all, but it must have been a hockey reference, because Ryan responded, “Let’s see how they do with the Predators.”
While they talked about men with sticks, I tried to figure out what to do. The SPCA couldn’t help me. The police didn’t take me seriously. I only knew one other officer, Rivera, and he hated my guts. Now what?
I sat down at my computer to do more research. Surely I couldn’t be the only person disturbed by an animal abuser? What did other animal-saviors do?
Traditionally, they went to the media and tried to get the newspaper, radio, and TV outlets interested. But nowadays, it looked like they went online. I followed their lead and started a Facebook group. I needed a catchy title.
“What are you doing?” asked Tucker.
“Can’t talk. Working,” I said.
He read over my shoulder. “Help the Hamsters? What?”
“Have you got a better title?” I snapped.
“Sure. Headless Hamsters. Help Hammy.”
Of course, Ryan wanted to get in on the action and was not impressed. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to do some detective work online. That way, I’m not risking my neck. I thought you guys would be thrilled.”
Ryan stared at me through the camera and repeated, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I can set up a Facebook group.”
“But then the killer can find you through your IP address. Haven’t you learned anything?”
A chill crept down my back. I stared back at him.
He shook his head and said, “I’ll do it.”
Throughout the next week, my dummy Facebook page received a lot of traffic. I was on my phone all the time, and not just researching articles. People wanted to join the Facebook group — IT folks, teenagers, whatever. I accepted them all, one at a time, before eventually making it an open group.
Then I got a private Facebook message. The subject was titled yr group, and the sender was Vladamir Kzurstan. The message read: catch me if you can.
I asked for Ryan’s advice. He called me and said, “This guy’s profile was made two hours ago. It looks like a setup.”
My Internet research was driving me crazy. I had to do something.
On my second-to-last day of my palliative care residency, I asked Dr. Huot if I could visit the plastic surgery unit one more time.
The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, my dear, are you thinking of changing specialities?”
“I’m just going for a visit.”
Dr. Huot touched my arm. “Of course, dear Hope.”
I rushed down Cote-des-Neiges to the Jewish Hospital. I had sins to eat.
I hurried to Dr. Mendelson’s office. I had no idea if I’d be able to find him, but luckily, I spotted his rumpled lab coat walking into his office.
I stopped at his secretary and told her I needed a few minutes with Dr. Mendelson.
“You’re not on the schedule today,” she said, staring at me over the wire rims of her glasses.
“I know. You’re right. But I need to talk to him about one of his patients.”
She sniffed. “I’ll check if he’ll see you. He’s a very busy man.”
Two crucial minutes later, I was sitting in his office. His degrees hung on the walls, and his desk was covered with old-fashioned books and journals, leaving barely enough room for his flat-screen computer monitor, keyboard, and tinfoil-wrapped sandwich. I thought I smelled liverwurst, which always struck me as something one wouldn’t eat willingly.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Ask not what you can do for me. Ask what you can do for the hamsters, spun through my brain, but I wasn’t crazy enough to say it aloud.
“I think one of your patients is torturing animals, and maybe humans,” I blurted out.
He choked and coughed, spraying a few crumbs.
I explained my accusations to him, using my phone to show him the proof. His eyes shot up, and he only read a few sentences of Heart’s Blood’s posts before he looked at me. “This is a sick man, but what does this have to do with me?”
“It’s Raymond Pascal Gusarov, the guy with the cheekbones,” I said.
“That one,” he replied, sagging into his chair.
“What is it?”
“His credit card bounced. He never paid me for the surgery. I even had those photos made for him.”
“Is he coming for the photos?” I asked.
“I left him a message that he couldn’t have them until he paid for the surgery. He’ll probably never show up again. He has thirty days to pay.”
“If he doesn’t pay, could you mention it to the police instead of a collection agency?”
Dr. Mendelson stared at me like I was speaking Kurdish.
“You know Al Capone?” I asked.
He blinked in surprise.
“He was a gangster who’s probably most famous for ordering the Valentine’s Day Massacre. But they never caught him for that, anything else either, like bootlegging or prostitution. What they got him for, eventually, was tax evasion. I wonder if we could catch Raymond Pascal Gusarov the same way.”
Dr. Mendelson looked as if he’d rather stick leeches all over my face.
I licked my lips, but kept going: “You could report him to a collection agency too, of course, so that you could get your money back. But look, he just posted another photo now, see?” I held up my iPhone, but the doctor hardly glanced at the picture, which showed a hamster with an ice pick through its heart, pinned to the table, its little paws hanging in the air.
Dr. Mendelson looked at me coldly. “I’m not doing this for you.”
My heart dropped in my stomach.
“I’m doing it for someone else.” He picked up his phone and started making calls.
A month later, the police dropped by Raymond Pascal Gusarov’s apartment.
Through the door Gusarov yelled, “Fuck you, pigs.”
This did not endear him to the cops, especially when he started shouting, “You can’t come in here without a warrant. Go away!” Then the officers heard someone in the apartment scream.
The police obtained a warrant, lickety-split. Dr. Mendelson told me that the person in the apartment was a minor held against his will.
“It’s bad blood,” Dr. Mendelson muttered. He crossed his arms and stared out the window overlooking Cote-des-Neiges. We watched the cars stopped at the light and the people zigzagging on the sidewalk, carrying their briefcases and gift bags.
I thanked Dr. Mendelson and tiptoed out of his office, barely catching something he said in Yiddish. His secretary had come to usher me out, and just before I left their shining office, I asked her, “What did he say?”
She pressed her lips together, but after a moment she told me: “A shlekhter sholem iz beser vi a guter krig.”
“What does it mean?”
She glanced at the patient coming in behind me and said, “A bad peace is better than a good war. Good day, Dr. Sze.”
I turned to face the patient, a man whose gray hair and spotted hands belonged to someone in his sixties, but whose tight face seemed eerily younger. He smiled at me with gleaming white teeth.
Milk Teeth
by Howard Shrier
Rue Rachel
Max understood animals. His mother had always kept at least one cat in their East End flat, to keep the mice and rats to a minimum. He knew the cats could be cruel at times, batting around a trapped mouse or spider with one paw while pinning a tail or leg with the other. But they’d also rub against the back of his leg when he fed them. One gray tabby, Faigie — named for a maiden aunt with a sad bristle of whiskers — would curl in his armpit when he was falling asleep and rest her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.