Free Honour Among Men by Barbara Fradkin Page A

soul together. Then at approximately 12:08 a.m. on April 9, 1996, police officers responded to a disturbance at the Lighthouse Tavern on Barrington Street. The Lighthouse is a strip joint with a rough clientele, mainly sailors off the ships, some armed forces personnel . . .” she smiled wryly, “and students slumming it. The staff usually handle their own disputes without calling in police. But that night the bartender himself put in the call, and when the first squad car responded, the fight pretty well involved the whole place. By the time other officers arrived and broke it up, there were four individuals wounded, one mortally.”
    â€œDaniel Oliver.”
    She nodded. “He was the instigator. According to witnesses willing to talk, he started an argument with another male customer. When that customer’s companion came over as backup, Daniel’s friends jumped in to take his side, and before you know it . . .” She shrugged in distaste.
    â€œWho was the other man?”
    â€œThat never came to light.”
    Green’s eyebrows shot up. “You never caught him?”
    She shook her head. “While the officers were breaking up the brawl, he apparently just walked out. Daniel’s friends said they didn’t recognize him, and the bartender said he’d never seen himbefore. He wasn’t even a Nova Scotian according to witnesses who overheard him speak, but then they were well plastered by that hour of the night, so you know what that’s worth.”
    â€œHow did Oliver die?”
    â€œBlunt force trauma to the left side of the head, the pathologist said. Caused massive intracranial bleeding, and he died four hours later in hospital without regaining consciousness.”
    â€œWhat caused the trauma?”
    â€œAccording to the pathologist, a bare fist, driven with such force it left the imprint of knuckles imbedded in the man’s skull.”
    Green digested this image soberly. It suggested either one hell of a strong guy, or one hell of an angry one. “Did you get any leads? Do you have a suspect but can’t prove it?”
    â€œPatricia was convinced it was someone from Daniel’s past. She and Daniel and four other friends were at a table near the back. They’d been drinking for three hours by then, and the bartender estimated they’d consumed about a dozen pitchers of beer between them. The stranger walked past and Daniel called him over to the table, saying something like ‘Hey, you son-of-a-bitch’. Now Daniel Oliver was a big guy, and when he was drunk, he could look pretty mean. And he was apparently yelling something about it being all this man’s fault and calling him a traitor and a lying bastard. There was a lot of noise in the bar, making it difficult to hear the whole conversation. Patricia was farthest away from the shouting match—”
    â€œSo the stranger was shouting too?”
    McGrath fell silent, thinking. “No. If I remember the witness statements, he was speaking very softly, almost not at all, then suddenly he came over the table at Daniel with a deadly right hook.”
    Green’s surprise must have shown, for she grinned. “I have five brothers. All boxing fans.”
    â€œYour suspect had to have some expertise in that area too,” said Green. “Or it was one lucky punch. Unlucky, if you’re Daniel Oliver.”
    â€œYes, it was one of the specs we fed into his profile, along with coming from away.”
    â€œWhat other facts did you learn about him? Witnesses must have observed something during the evening. Or the bartender. They usually watch the unknowns like a hawk.”
    â€œThe man didn’t draw attention to himself. He’d come in alone about an hour earlier, sat in the corner at the bar by himself . . .” Here she paused, wrinkling her brow in her effort to remember. “Watching TV and drinking pretty heavily over the