Absalom was thinking of her again.
Maybe it was the fact that the burglary call came in from a basement apartment on Barnardo Street, just around the corner from Parkhill. So, he was already thinking of Paul Bernardo and the legacy he left over Scarborough. Each time Absalom wrote the address on the paperwork, each time he called in any detail or went over the woman’s statements, the street name hung in his vision. It was a silent scream, pure Edvard Munch, twisted and contorted. BARNARDO in all caps, a persistent wound, a sketch of the Scarborough r****t on telephone poles when he was five or six. He always thought the posters were so high; he had to look up to see them. Then when Bernardo was caught, and his photo was plastered on newspapers, young Absalom could stare at Bernardo’s face
