Sharon Kwik

Exhibit #116

Sergeant Mohammed pulls out a large cardboard box from under a small table in his office. He starts rifling through the collection of items inside. White light shines through the rectangular window, casting a soft blue-gray glow on his light brown hands. His office becomes a dark theater with an eerie spotlight. All I see are his hands and the box which he slowly opens, flaps scraping against the sides.

“We found this in his apartment.” He picks up a white translucent plastic storage box about a foot square and an inch and half thick. It has multiple compartments and a lid hinged on one side. It’s a giant organizer found in hobby shops for buttons or nails and screws. He unclips the lid to show me the interior. It is filled with hundreds of pills of all shapes, sizes and colors. Small round matte white pills, shiny red discs, yellow and white capsules, blue ovals. A veritable rainbow of illicit drugs. Some have markings some don’t.            

I’m on a first name basis with Sergeant Mohammed, Tom, after multiple in person talks, emails and texts over the four years it took to find the men who killed my brother, execute a Mr.Big operation, arrest and sentence them. In that time, he’s been promoted from Detective to Sergeant. Now he’s permitted to let me see all the evidence that was part of the ongoing investigation since it’s finally over. This is our last meeting. Tom’s been my support system for much of it, and gone above and beyond to answer my many questions promptly and without restraint. He even postponed one of his vacations to meet with my mom and me while I was visiting Vancouver from Brooklyn. However, showing me these drugs, proof of my brother’s lack of innocence, seems insensitive and out of character. Although perhaps it’s just a cop thing. I’ve managed for the most part to be frank and unemotional in our exchanges. Sometimes I think he views me as a buddy that he can shoot the shit with. Sometimes I think he forgets I’m the sister of the man who was murdered. The pills rattle against the plastic as he closes the box.

“But I can’t give you that.” He puts the case on the table and slides it towards the window, out of reach. His round face with rectangular glasses and short spiky black hair is usually kind, but in that moment it’s all business.

I stifle a laugh. As if I wanted it. What the hell would I do with it if I could have it? I am sterile and devoid of feeling. I was in denial about Denis’s drug use for years before his death. Decades. Believing only what I wanted to believe. What I needed to believe.

Tom leans back over the box, his tie swings forward brushing the edge. He picks up a heavy carved wooden box about the size of a brick. “But you can have this.” It looks old and has thick decorative swirls with dust in the grooves. Denis must have gotten it on our trip with our mom to Bali. He opens up the lid. Inside are various glass pipes with psychedelic swirls, rolling papers, and large dry brown and green clumps of weed and reddish-brown squares of hashish. These boxes are like Secret Santa for addicts.

He closes the box and hands it to me. Adult use of cannabis has been legalized since 2018 in Canada. Too late for my brother. He was arrested for marijuana possession when he was eighteen in 1993. Once Homeland Security cracked down after 9/11 and government records were digitized, Denis was no longer able to visit me in the States. Before that he’d managed to slip through. He had an honest face and an amiable personality. Unlike me. He was a minor when they arrested him. The charge could easily have been expunged from his record, only he couldn’t handle jumping through all the bureaucratic hoops.

“I’ll give it to my mom.” I don’t want the drugs. But my mom treasured her tradition of smoking a joint with my brother every Christmas. When her boyfriend from Toronto came to visit on a booty call, she asked my brother to get her some weed, specifically, “the good stuff.” I wouldn’t mind keeping the box but it would probably get confiscated at US customs. Even empty, I’m sure it reeked enough for dogs to sniff it out.

Tom has already given me back my brother’s old Acer laptop, his iPad, and a thumb drive containing photos from his phone. I didn’t have the passwords to access any of the information on his devices. The thumb drive only contained forty or so pictures he’d taken with an app that distorted his face like a lava lamp. The laptop is in Portland at my brother-in-law’s apartment. Marcus is a computer whiz and his family’s official tech support person. He excavated hundreds of photos and videos from Denis’s laptop. Photos of his cats Diesel and Kitty, plants and flowers, his colorful acrylic paintings, Sunday dinners he made for my mom, his various detailing shops and apartments over the years, the luxury cars and boats he worked on, selfies, “Old Betsy” his classic Chrysler, his daughter, numerous photos of my son and me on a solo trip we made to Vancouver in 2007, a self-made video of him having sex with one of his ex-girlfriends on his couch, and a large number of titillating photos of random women with enhanced body parts that I suspect he was paying to have online relationships with.

“Here’s your brother’s phone, keys and sunglasses.” He passes me an old iPhone, a large metal ring of keys and black plastic wraparound sunglasses with scratched lenses.

I don’t have the password to his phone and I have no idea what these keys are for. I put everything in my backpack.

“There was 200 dollars in his pocket.” He hands me a zip lock bag with folded paper bills. He then hands me a delicate gold chain with a polished dark blue stone and a crude hole drilled through the middle hanging on it. “He was wearing this when he was shot. This is where the bullet grazed it as it went through his chest.” Tom points out a narrow groove and chip along the side of the stone.

I’ve been fine up until this point. An impartial observer of archaeological artifacts found in a tomb. But this necklace is the dumortierite gemstone I bought for him from the Crystal Ark store on Granville Island two years before he died. The shop person told me it would help with battling addiction. He wore it 24 hours a day under his t-shirts and sent me a photo of it against his bare chest. I wonder if the bullet hitting this stone altered its path. As much as I appreciate Tom’s thoroughness, I wish he’d kept this detail to himself. I may not have noticed the scratch otherwise. Would my brother have died if he hadn’t been wearing the necklace? My throat tightens.       

“Sharon, are you okay?” I blink and the person sitting next to me suddenly comes into focus. Aliya, a slim dark olive-skinned woman in her early thirties, gives me a concerned look. She has been my other anchor in this crazy storm. Aliya works as a counsellor with the Vancouver Police Department’s Victim’s Services. She made many long-distance calls to locate an affordable therapist with experience with homicide victims’ families for me in New York. At the courthouse when the smarmy criminal defense attorney for the accused sought me out so he could shake my hand, she took me outside and walked me through deep breathing exercises.

I swallow and try to breathe from my diaphragm. “I’m fine.” I don’t want Tom to get put off by me getting emotional. I want to continue, to complete this phase, to just get on with it. “What’s next?” I ask brusquely.

“I have the autopsy, toxicology and firearms reports. Unfortunately, I can’t give you any hard copies, but I can tell you what they say.” He opens up a folder on his desk, revealing a small stack of paper. “Are you ready?”

“Go ahead.” I grip the sides of the chair.

“The victim was wearing a white zip up hoodie, a black t-shirt, black pants, two pairs of socks, black runners, and a gold necklace. In his pockets were $200 cash, a bag with four pills and a blue light with paper instructions.”

Two pairs of socks. He must have been cold. Why was he so cold? I thought the heat worked well in his basement suite. It was winter though. Was The Shop cold? Why would it be? It was in a fancy apartment building. What was the blue light for? Where was his wallet? Why couldn’t they find the wallet? Who took it? What did they do with it?

“The fingernails were bitten down and there was black pigment on the right middle finger. Victim also had a right testicular implant.”

I remember when the doctor told Denis and my mom that he had an undescended testicle. I was still living at home then. He was nine. He begged my mom not to tell our dad. He must have been afraid our dad would make fun of him or get angry about it. We never knew what might set him off. The next day, Denis was caught shoplifting. I’m sure our dad gave him hell for that. But I can’t remember. So much I can’t recall. Maybe I blocked it out. Maybe I was too self-involved in some stupid teenage drama involving some boy that I liked.

“The victim was shot in the chest. The bullet ricocheted through the heart and lung, exiting out the spine.”

When Detective Roberts first told this to my mom and me, we clung on to it like a security blanket. He didn’t suffer alone for hours. He was killed instantly.

“The drugs found in the victim’s system were methamphetamine, ketamine, diazepam, nordiazepam, and THC.”

I’d heard of meth, special K, and THC. What are diazepam and nordiazepam? I thought for the longest time he was just using just crystal meth. That’s what he told my mom and me. For years. One drug didn’t seem so bad. One drug seemed manageable. One drug seemed like something he could quit one day. When I cleaned out his apartment, I found crushed remnants of various pills. This was just putting labels on what I already knew deep down. And yet it just makes everything so much worse.

“Sharon, maybe you’d like to take a break now?” Aliya puts her hand on my arm.

I tense up and move slightly away. “No. No, I’m good. Please, go ahead Tom.” I know she’s being kind and looking after me. That’s why I asked her to come with me today. But I don’t want Tom to think I need to be coddled.  I’m afraid I won’t get to hear the whole story if I’m not brave enough to handle it. I need to hear all the details. I need all the pieces of the puzzle. I still have so many questions. It’s been four years and I still don’t understand a damn thing.

“The weapon used by the assailants was a Smith and Wesson Model 29-2 .44 Magnum revolver.”

I knew about the gun. The one made famous by Clint Eastwood. The gun that could “blow your head clean off.” A gun used for big game hunting. A gun used by two men on my skinny 5 foot, 8 inch, 140 pound unarmed brother.

“Are you ready for the crime scene photos? As I mentioned there are literally hundreds of pictures, so I chose eight that will hopefully help put things in perspective and bring you some closure.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, I’m going to show them to you one at a time. We can stop if it’s too much.” He carefully extracts a pile of 8×10 photos out of the folder and puts them face down on the desk.

I nod. I had asked to see the photos, this was actually the main reason for my visit to Tom’s office. When I got the call that Sunday morning from Detective Frazier that my brother had been killed, I had a vague hope that they were wrong. That they had the wrong person. The earliest flight I could get out of New York was that evening, so I didn’t arrive until after midnight. The following day I asked to see my brother’s body in the police morgue, to identify him, but they said I couldn’t because they were doing an autopsy and that I’d have to make arrangements with the funeral parlor. In the end, I got to see his sewn-up corpse filled with formaldehyde, but it didn’t look like him. I mean it did but it didn’t. It was like staring at a wax figure in a museum. Just a representation of the real thing. It wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all me.

In the years since he died, I’d read dozens of books on the afterlife and grief memoirs, and I had this idea that if his soul had left his body before he even hit the floor, then maybe he’d have a peaceful expression on his face. Maybe I could believe that he was finally happy and no longer suffering. I didn’t want my last memory of him to be a painted cadaver on a table.

Tom slowly turns over the first picture like a magician revealing a card. It’s a black and white photo of an undecorated room with a nondescript couch three cushions wide and a coffee table. “This is ‘The Shop.’” The next six photos are various angles of “The Shop,” the apartment in the historical building in the “nice” part of town where my brother’s dealer, Shanti, sold drugs by appointment only. “This is the kitchen and the fridge where they kept the drugs.” The fridge was a tall rectangular glass cabinet, the kind used to display cakes and pies in a bakery. “Your brother was shot in the doorway to the kitchen. That’s where we found his body. Only his body was facing the wrong way.”

“What do you mean, the wrong way?”

“He would have fallen forward, face down, but instead he was lying on his back.”

Kyle, the superintendent of the building, a supposed friend of my brother, found his body after a client called and said that no one was answering his calls to buy drugs at Shanti’s shop. Apparently, Kyle went to check on “The Shop” on Shanti’s behalf. He told the police he’d done CPR on my brother and then called the ambulance. It didn’t make sense. How could he do chest compressions when my brother had a huge hole where his heart used to be? He must have been lying to make himself look good. So much bullshit.

“This is the final photo. You said you wanted to see your brother’s face?”

I nod again. He turns over the picture and there’s my brother’s face, cropped at the neck, eyes wide open, staring up into nothingness, his mouth in the shape of an o. It’s a stark high contrast photo, also black and white. I can see the pores and pimples on his skin. He doesn’t look peaceful. He doesn’t look happy. He looks surprised. This shot was taken from above and slightly behind his head, such an unflattering angle, definitely not how my handsome brother would like to have been remembered. I’ve had enough. I need more air than this small office with three people and closed windows can possibly contain. I stand up. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Of course, do you remember where it is?” Tom stands up and adjusts his navy blazer.

Aliya stands up. “I’ll take her.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and we step out into the hallway.

This design forward building was originally built for Motorola’s expansion in Vancouver. The glass and concrete offices surround an interior courtyard. Looking over the railing from where we stand on the fifth floor makes me feel faint. I step away from the side and make my way toward the women’s restroom. I thought I could handle this, I need to handle this. There’s one more item from the crime scene I have to get from Tom. And it’s important. I step into the ladies’ room and Aliya waits for me outside. Thankfully there’s no one in there. I run cold water over my wrists and try to collect myself. Seeing my brother lying there, even though it was just his face, brought back all the turbulent emotions from the beginning. Wondering how much pain had he been in. How long did he lie there alone and suffering? Hating myself for having moved so far away, for not being there for him when he needed me. I could at least be strong enough to face the aftermath of his death. I dry my hands with a paper towel and step back into the hallway. “Okay I’m ready. Let’s go.”

We walk back to Tom’s office and sit down again. The photographs are no longer on his desk, just a small thin rectangular envelope. “I have the DNA sample from your brother that you asked about. I’m not supposed to give it to you because it’s considered evidence and should go back in the evidence locker. However, since the sentencing is done, I’m going to give it to you. It sounds like you need it and it’s not going to do anyone any good just collecting dust. Just don’t tell anyone you have it.” He hands me the envelope. I take it without looking at it, drop it in my backpack and do up the zipper.

“I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done.” My mom has been giving gourmet chocolates, bags of coffee and enormous bouquets of flowers to Tom, the other detectives and the Crown Counsel. We’ve thanked them over and over again in emails, in person, by text, by card.

“We can’t bring your brother back but I hope that you feel justice has been served.”

I stand up and so does Aliya. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she says.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out.” Tom stands up and comes out from behind the desk. The three of us walk to the elevator. There’s some sort of ceremony going on downstairs. Several young men in uniform stand in a line saluting, then take turns walking across the courtyard. Maybe it’s the new police recruits. It seems somewhat celebratory. Tom and I make small talk about his new position. We exit the elevator and walk past the big half circle desk. The sunlight streaming in the glass doors is blinding.

“Can I give you a hug?” I ask. Tom and I hug and I thank him again. I’m going to miss our talks. Even though we’re both in our mid-forties I feel like he’s the father figure that I always wanted.

Aliya and I walk across the parking lot and get in her car. She inserts the key in the ignition and turns to me. “Are you okay? That was a lot to take in. Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m okay. I think I’ll just go back to my mom’s.” I stare out the window at the parking lot full of cop cars.

“Okay, well, let me know if you change your mind.” Aliya starts the engine and begins driving.

I unzip my backpack, looking for my sunglasses and my fingers close on a thin envelope. I pull it out. The white sticker says Forensic Lab Services Vancouver. In small black type it says Victim FTA Card. EX 116 is highlighted in orange. I open it. Inside is a white card folded like a matchbook. I slowly unfurl it. Printed in black ink on unbleached card stock are four circle outlines the size of quarters. Inside each circle are five dark red dots. Five dark red dots of blood. Five times four is twenty. Twenty drops of my brother’s blood. Twenty drops of my dead brother’s blood. “Aliya, pull over please, I think I’m going to be sick.” I close the card and press hard on the open window button. Aliya makes a sharp turn and pulls up next to a field where some kids are throwing a football in the distance. I yank open the door, lean out and dry heave onto the curb. I scream but no sound comes out. I am empty. I have no voice. Aliya hands me a box of tissues.

I look at her gratefully. It’s over, it’s finally over. I watch the pre-adolescent boys tossing the ball back and forth. Running and laughing. Then I imagine the ground suddenly caving in, grass flying in muddy clumps and hitting our windshield. The boys getting sucked into a giant sinkhole. The trees disappearing one by one with a thunderous cracking sound. The sidewalk and Aliya’s car sliding downwards. And then it stops. Like a film in reverse, the ground knits itself back up again into a smooth grassy plain. Only, the children are gone.

Sharon Kwik is a writer and filmmaker based in Brooklyn, NY. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she holds a BFA in photography from Emily Carr University of Art and Design. Her writing has appeared in The Capilano Review, Skidrow Penthouse and The Fiction Circus. Sharon is currently working on a memoir about her brother with support from the Canada Council for the Arts.