The Way the Crow Flies

by Ann-Marie MacDonald

  “Are you pro-Communist?”

  “Nein, nein, I am Canadian, I mean only to say the authorities prefer sometimes a fascist background instead of socialist—”

  “Do you have a socialist background?”

  “This is a socialist country.”

  Bradley doesn’t smile.

  Henry says, “The Communists were the only ones to stand up to Hitler when—”

  “And Canada. We stood up.”

  “Ja, genau, Canada, natürlich, but at first—Inspector Bradley, were you in the war?”

  “I most certainly was, sir.”

  “Then we both understand to take nothing for granted.”

  Bradley is silent. Spittle has collected at the ends of the man’s moustache. Bradley can smell his breath—corrosive. Finally, he asks, “What does this man look like, sir?”

  “Ordinary. Brown suit.” The inspector’s pen is still. Froelich searches for something concrete. “Glasses. Pale. Perhaps sixty, not too tall. Grey hair. Ja, grey. And thin. Thin hair as well.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Pale … perhaps blue.”

  “Thank you for coming in, sir.”

  Froelich gets up reluctantly. “Inspector Bradley, you must ask the commander—Woodley is a good man—you must find if the air force knows this man. He is a sadist, he enjoys, you see. I feel sick that I have not come sooner to tell you.”

  After Bradley has seen the man to the door, he finishes writing his notes on the interview with—he checks the spelling on the typed report—Henry Froelich. He lights another Player’s and ponders his next step. He has already ordered a check on all ’63 Ford Galaxys with Ontario plates, and now he can narrow it, thanks to the numbers provided by Froelich. Bradley will have the medical examiner’s report tomorrow, but the pathologist has already estimated time of death as between four and five P.M. last Wednesday. The time the boy claims to have seen the car.

  There are three possibilities. Froelich is telling the truth and an air force man is, knowingly or not, involved with a war criminal whose car was seen around the time and in the vicinity of the murder. Or Froelich is mistaken—he is Jewish, he was in a concentration camp, this may not be the first time he’s convinced himself that he’s seen a face from the past, and exaggerated the horrors associated with that face. Or he’s lying.

  If the first is correct, what should Bradley do? War crimes are an RCMP matter, he could simply pick up the phone. But this murder is in his jurisdiction; he’s not about to pass the buck, nor does he relish the thought of muddying the waters by inviting another organization on board before he has to. He could talk to Group Captain Woodley, ask him straight out if he knows of any air force involvement with a German scientist. But what if the government has indeed knowingly recruited a war criminal for some highly classified purpose? Is Woodley likely to admit it? In which case the RCMP may also be in the know—so much for calling on them. Bradley couldn’t care less about stepping on toes; if Froelich’s war criminal is out there, then he’s a suspect, and Bradley intends to track him down; for, much as he dismisses Froelich’s extravagant claim of “thousands,” he knows it’s inevitable that a few Nazis did slip through the net. There was a recent sighting just down the road here in Oxford County: Josef Mengele picking tobacco. And, whether Mengele has since fled or was never here to begin with, his case is not unique. There are still many of them on the run. Bradley smokes and leans back. He needs to figure out how to broach the subject with Woodley without tipping him off….

  Finally, Bradley locks his briefcase and leaves. He is the last one out, the night shift has already arrived. He’s looking forward to his supper. As he gets into his car, he asks himself why, if Froelich is lying, he would come up with a “war criminal” story, of all things. The obvious answer is that good liars stick close to the truth, and it’s probably true that Froelich was in a concentration camp. Perhaps he is something of a Communist sympathizer too—the Soviets like to inflate the number of war criminals said to be at large in the West. In any case, he strikes Bradley as a bitter man; he didn’t want to cut wood, didn’t want to run a sewing machine—Bradley’s own father worked in an asbestos mine—if these people don’t appreciate the freedom we fought for in this country, they’re welcome to find another. But that is subjective and has no bearing on the case.

  As Bradley drives across Goderich’s town square—coming into bloom now around the courthouse—he entertains a simpler scenario: Froelich came up with this story because he knows that his son is lying and needs an alibi for the time of the murder. And how could the boy possibly know the time of the murder unless he committed it himself? Froelich has also provided an excuse as to why that alibi can never be corroborated, for if the alleged air force man were involved with a war criminal for some shadowy purpose, he would have good reason not to come forward. Doesn’t Froelich know that he risks looking like a crackpot? A liar? Or is he crafty enough to have come up with a fairy tale that, by its very outlandishness, is not entirely self-serving and is thus plausible? He is supplying a red herring that can never be traced, and hoping it may serve as “reasonable doubt.”

  Bradley respects doubt even when he doesn’t share it. His job is to parse doubt. To reduce it to a level below reasonable. Like a good scientist, he is skeptical, especially when it comes to his own leanings. He switches on his brights as he leaves the town limits.

  A child is dead. But Bradley has decided that, before he sets a fifteen-year-old boy on track for the gallows, he will consider very carefully how to investigate Froelich’s story as discreetly, as thoroughly, as if he believed it himself.

  Bradley is a father too.

  HELPING THE POLICE WITH THEIR INQUIRIES

  Write “bicycle” and “terrible” in syllables. Draw a line under the last syllable in each word. Write the two words again.

  Macmillan Spelling Series, 1962

  ON TUESDAY MORNING the children come into the classroom after the long weekend to see whose art Mr. March has put up on the wall, and which one among this anointed group is marked with a gold star. The usual suspects are represented: the bossy girls, Gordon Lawson and Marjorie Nolan. Marjorie’s picture is all-purpose religious and she has driven home the point by affixing a caption, “Moses Among the Cattails.” What is shocking, however, is that Grace Novotny’s art is not only up on the wall, it is the proud bearer of the coveted gold star. This is shocking not because the butterflies have been deemed the best—they are the best—but because they were done by disgusting Grace. With her bandaged hands like the Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb. They are still swaddled. Filthy and frayed.

  Just before recess, the principal, Mr. Lemmon, announces over the PA system, “Girls and boys, I have a very sad announcement to make. One of your schoolmates, Claire McCarroll, has passed away. Let us all observe two minutes’ silence now for Claire and her family. Feel free to pray quietly to yourselves.”

  Mr. March makes them all stand and bow their heads. Two minutes. Like on November 11. It seems the silence goes on forever. Then finally, when it’s over and the normal sounds trickle back into the day, it’s difficult to remember what the island of silence was like. And Claire is gone. Washed over. A blank spot that will be worn down by the tide until the water runs smoothly again. Madeleine tries to picture Claire’s face but it keeps stretching and distorting in her mind’s eye.

  Her face was covered with her underpants. Inspector Bradley has gone over the photographs, the autopsy report and the lab results. Peculiarities of … (d) Skin: intense cyanotic lividity of face and neck; intense cyanosis of the nails and extremities of fingers…. Although no semen or acid phosphates were found in her, there has clearly been what the pathologist noted as “a violent and very inexpert attempt at penetration.” There may have been ejaculate on the ground, he may have forced her to watch him masturbate—common pedophile behaviour—but it would have been washed away by the rain. The killer tried to rape her, then he strangled her.

  Stomach: unremarkable<
br />
  Intestines: unremarkable

  Pancreas: unremarkable

  Liver: unremarkable …

  Hymen: destroyed …

  Lower vagina: contused …

  He is a sexual deviant, that much is clear. A pervert with an underdeveloped sexual nature. And then there is the way he left the body: decorated, almost. As if she were only sleeping and it had all been a game—although the bulrushes in the shape of a cross hint at an awareness that she was dead.

  The police are looking for an immature man with access to little girls. An inexpert sexual practitioner, known to the child, for there is no evidence that she was abducted, no sign of a struggle. He could be a teacher. Or a student. A friend. Bradley has already interviewed the victim’s teacher and, now that the time of death has been confirmed, will interview him again tomorrow along with all other male staff, regardless of the outcome of today’s search for the alleged air force man in the Ford Galaxy. Then he will draw a circle around the murder scene, and interview every farmer in a five-mile radius.

  Note on time of death: This opinion would place the time of death between 4:00 p.m. and 5:00 p.m. Wednesday, 10th of April 1963, based on the following observations and assumptions:

  1. the extent of decomposition …

  2. the extent of rigor mortis …

  3. the limited degree of digestion …

  If Richard Froelich had been out on Highway 4, waving at an air force man between four and five, he would not have had time to murder the child, and arrive home when several people—not just his family—have said he did.

  Bradley has set himself up in the office of the recreation director overlooking the curling arena at RCAF Centralia. He will question each man individually, that is how thorough he is prepared to be. He has not shared Froelich’s story of a war criminal with his staff or his superiors, and certainly not with Woodley or any RCAF personnel.

  Bradley is scrupulous. He and his team will interview upwards of twelve hundred air force personnel. They will start at eight A.M. Bradley is scrupulous, but he has told someone about the war criminal connection. He has told the father of the murdered child. Mr. Froelich’s story has turned out to be doubly useful; Bradley was able, without lying, to tell Captain McCarroll that he was looking for a war criminal in connection with the death of his daughter. McCarroll has already assaulted a police officer. Who knows how he might react if he found out that the boy up the street is under investigation for the rape and murder of his child?

  “Everybody’s been very kind, very Christian,” says Blair McCarroll.

  “Very Christian,” says Sharon McCarroll, smiling.

  Jack says, “I’m glad.” He is on the couch in the McCarrolls’ living room, because they insisted he sit for a moment.

  “Especially you and your good wife,” says Blair.

  “Oh Mimi’s been an angel,” says Sharon.

  Jack has put Mrs. McCarroll’s boarding pass and itinerary on the coffee table. McCarroll is in civvies. Jack is in uniform; it’s just before ten A.M. He has used his rank as a senior officer to scrounge a more direct flight to the States for Sharon. The least he can do.

  Sharon is staring down at her coffee table. She seems lost in its glossy surface, her smile only now beginning to fade. No one says anything. Jack wonders if he ought to leave after all. Tears fall on the glass tabletop. A moan, childlike, comes from somewhere—from her. Her face is half hidden by the forward fall of light brown hair. The moan rises, patient, relaxed even, until it’s a wail; she doesn’t cover her face, she is past that. Jack glances from Sharon to her husband, but Blair just watches her for a moment before putting an arm around her and taking her hand in his. The top of her head touches his chin. He stares down and off to the side; only one can cry at a time.

  Jack hesitates, then gets up carefully. But Blair has done this a hundred times now, so has his wife; their movements are practised, her grief is shocking and intimate only to an outsider. Jack waits for an appropriate moment to exit. Why does the earth open and take some lives and leave others intact? The earth opened and took their child. My child happened not to be taken. He reaches for his hat on the couch—

  “Would you like some coffee, Jack? I was just going to make some,” says Blair.

  Jack is taken by surprise, uncertain how to answer—surely he should not stay a moment longer. But Sharon blows her nose, looks up and, with a smile to her husband—“I’ll make it, hon.”

  Jack has an interview with the police at ten-thirty, but he is not about to run out on these two if company is what they want. Sharon turns and walks toward the kitchen, only a step or two away in the tiny bungalow, and Jack hears the tap go on. He sits down again. The police have everyone filing one by one into various offices at the mess, the language school and the curling arena—something to do with the investigation. Whatever it is, it must be pretty straightforward; the interviews are spaced a couple of minutes apart. He checks his watch discreetly—it’s five past ten.

  From where Jack is sitting he can glimpse Sharon’s movements, bare arms, dark A-line dress, hair falling back from her face as she reaches up to the cupboards. McCarroll’s wife is so pretty it breaks your heart. He feels his throat constrict, he leans forward, coughs. “So Blair, you’ll be joining Sharon soon, I take it.”

  “That’s right, her folks’ll meet her and I’ll join her later with Claire.”

  The fragile refraction of a normal conversation. With Claire. A man joining his wife, bringing their child. Jack is very careful. Blair is very careful.

  “It’s a decent flight she’s on,” says Jack.

  “Yeah, thanks Jack.”

  “Oh don’t thank me, you’re lucky, that’s all,” and so that his foolish words don’t hang in the air, he adds quickly, “Virginia is beautiful, I hear.”

  “It’s God’s country.”

  Silence.

  There is a packing box in the corner of the room. Labelled “Toys” in red felt-tip pen. Soon the McCarrolls will be gone. Jack sees the room empty, white and waiting, the way it was before they arrived. The way it will be when the next family moves in, their temporary things anchored to the walls, the floors.

  Their conversation is in disguise. It drapes itself in the tones and emphases of a different type of conversation—one you might have at the water cooler—in order to give manageable shape to … what? A ghost. Grief.

  “Keepin’ us informed,” says Blair, nodding.

  “What’s that?” says Jack.

  “The police. They’ve been real good about keeping us informed.”

  The disguise is slipping. Keeping us informed. Jack can’t think what to say. Behind the mask of their conversation is what has been in this room all along: absence. They are keeping her alive with their chat, with the promise of coffee in a moment, with the box marked “Toys.” The police, the investigation, all the tasks—even accompanying her body down to the States—it all amounts to a busy scaffolding, a sturdy context for her continued existence. Soon the tasks will be finished, and the whole skeletal structure will stand empty. Silent. Keeping us informed. Impossible for the father to talk about what the doctor found—what the police informed him the doctor found. And yet impossible for the father not to talk about his daughter. Last week she baked brownies for show-and-tell, she got eight out of ten on her spelling test and he helped her with a book report on Black Beauty—the teacher has not yet marked the book reports but the father is sure she did well. Two days ago she exhibited vaginal bruising and bleeding sustained just before she died, as well as thumb marks on her neck; she was listed as a “healthy normal prepubescent female” on her autopsy report. That’s what’s new. That’s what she has done lately. He has to talk about his child. He has to be careful, that’s all.

  “They’ve got some good men there, the OPP,” says Jack.

  “Oh yeah.” Blair nods. “They’re sharp.”

  “That’s for darn sure.”

  “I just hope they find their damn war criminal s
o they can get on with finding….”

  Jack has been feeling slightly disoriented. He realizes it now as he blinks at McCarroll and says, “What’s that?”

  “Police told me the Froelich boy saw a car on the road that afternoon, a blue Ford, and Henry says it belongs to some war criminal he saw last week, or—I can’t make it out, it doesn’t matter.” His voice drops off and his head droops.

  Jack parts his lips—they stick as though with glue. “I haven’t heard anything about a war criminal.”

  “I think it’s on the QT.”

  From the kitchen comes the sound of the fridge door opening, something being poured, milk.

  Blair says, “I thought Henry might’ve mentioned it.”

  Jack’s face is on fire. He looks down at the smear on the coffee table from Sharon’s tears, and clears his throat. “What’s Hank saying exactly?”

  “Well,” says Blair, relaxing back in his chair—it’s a relief, this part of the story, it’s clean, not obscene, interesting even. “He’s saying this car, this brand-new blue Ford—you know the new Galaxy coupe—came down the road the boy was on—he was out running like he does with his sister and his dog, you know? And he says this car comes along with an air force man in it who waved, but the boy couldn’t tell who it was on account of the sun was on the windshield—”

  “How do you take your coffee, Jack?” Sharon is here with a tray. Her eyes are puffy but she’s smiling. Jack makes a move to help but she sets the tray down. “You men just sit and relax.”

  Claire would have grown up to be just as pretty, thinks Jack, just as much that rare find, a sweet and happy wife. They will have more children, surely. Jack says, “Cream, two sugars, thank you Sharon.”

  “Thanks hon,” says Blair.

  Both men watch Sharon fix the coffees, her wrist stirring, fingers clinking the spoon against the rim. They each take a mug and she turns and walks back toward the kitchen with the tray, but pauses halfway, as though she has forgotten something. She stands for a moment, her back to them, unmoving. They watch her. After a moment she continues into the kitchen.