The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  Alex poured the tea. “Zimbardo’s theory is that with this kind of masochistic sex, the danger of the surroundings is part of the kick. You’ll have to admit, Jo, it’s not exactly the type of act you want to pull off at the Holiday Inn. And another thing, we found drugs at the scene. Street drugs. Gallagher might have been down there making a buy and just decided to stay in the neighbourhood.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “Amyl nitrites. The street name is poppers. They dilate the blood vessels. They were originally used to treat angina.”

  “But you don’t think Reed was using them for medicinal reasons.”

  “Not with the hood and the rest of the paraphernalia. Poppers are also supposed to prolong and intensify orgasm. Splatter figured that’s what Gallagher was doing, but it was a bad choice. Amyl nitrites cause a sharp decrease in blood pressure. The current theory is that Gallagher blacked out, and wasn’t able to extricate himself from his bondage.”

  “What an awful way to die.”

  “It’s not the best, that’s for sure.” Alex studied the tea in his cup, then he looked up. “Jo, was Reed Gallagher bisexual by any chance?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because poppers are primarily used by gay men. It’s odd to see a straight guy with them.”

  “The whole thing is odd,” I said.

  “It is that,” he said. “And I think we’ve both had enough of it. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. How was your evening?”

  “Actually, not much better than yours.” I started to tell him about the launch. I skipped the ugly exchange I’d had with Jill, but I did tell him about Tom Kelsoe’s rudeness to Ed Mariani.

  When I finished, Alex shook his head in disgust. “Why would a terrific woman like Jill put up with a prick like that?”

  “She’s in love,” I said. “Or she thinks she is. But that was a pricky thing to do, wasn’t it? I’m glad to have some objective corroboration. My instincts weren’t very trustworthy tonight.”

  “You’ve got great instincts.”

  “When it comes to Tom Kelsoe, I’m not exactly impartial. You know, I’m embarrassed even to say this, but at the book launch I realized that, in addition to everything else, I’m jealous of him.”

  “Because of all the attention he’s getting?”

  “Partly, I guess. When my book came out, my publisher didn’t lay on a launch. I just invited all my friends over for a barbecue and made them buy a copy.”

  “I didn’t know you’d written a book.”

  “Neither did anybody else. It was a biography of Andy Boychuk. It’s been almost five years since he died, but I still think how different this province, maybe even the country, would have been if he’d lived.”

  “Do you really believe one person can make a difference?”

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  “I used to. That’s why I joined the force. I was going to show the public that a native cop could be as smart and as reliable as a white cop, and I was going to show the native community that the law was fair and impartial.” He laughed. “In those days, I thought of myself as a force for change.”

  “And you don’t think of yourself that way any more?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  I looked at him. Even in the softly diffused light from the telephone table, the acne scars of his adolescence were apparent. The first time we’d made love, he’d recoiled when I touched his face. The more I came to know Alex Kequahtooway, the more I believed the acne scars were just the beginning.

  “We’re wasting our hour talking,” I said.

  He came and put his arms around me. “So we are,” he said. “So we are.”

  Angus’s stage cough was discreet. “Sorry to interrupt, but Leah and I are going to 7-Eleven, and I wanted to make sure Alex was still going to give me a driving lesson tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here at nine a.m.,” Alex said.

  “With your Audi,” Angus said.

  “With my Audi.”

  “Was a driving lesson the price you paid for that corned beef sandwich?” I asked.

  “I volunteered.” He looked at his watch. “And I’ve got to get back.”

  Angus’s eyes widened. “A break in a case?”

  “Paperwork,” Alex said, and he stood and zipped his jacket. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Both of you.”

  I walked him to the door. Then the dogs and I headed for bed. I almost made it. I’d already checked on Taylor, brushed my teeth, and discovered that all my nightgowns were in the clean laundry in the basement when Angus yelled that there was a lady at the door who had to see me.

  I pulled on my jogging clothes and sweatsocks and padded downstairs. Julie Evanson-Gallagher was standing in the hall. She was wearing the London Fog trenchcoat she’d put on to go down to police headquarters that afternoon, but she’d added gold hoop earrings, a paisley silk scarf, a tan leather bag and matching gloves. She was immaculate, but her careful grooming couldn’t hide the tension in her body or the anguish in her eyes.

  I stepped aside. “Won’t you come in, Julie?” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I just wanted to give you the keys.” She fumbled with her purse. When the clasp finally opened, she took out a set of keys.

  “I’m leaving for the airport to catch a flight to Toronto. I’ll need somebody to look after the house when I’m away. I don’t know who else to ask.”

  I took the keys from her. “I’ll be happy to help.”

  “I didn’t mean you had to go over there. I thought I could pay one of your children. There’s not much to do – just feed the fish and take in the mail. But someone should clean out the refrigerator. My cleaning lady quit last night.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “Why does everything have to go wrong at once?”

  “Julie, this has been a terrible day for you. Why don’t you come in and have a drink, and when you’re ready, I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  “I can’t take a chance on missing my plane,” she said. “I don’t want to be here when people find out how he died.”

  “Did you tell Alex you’re going? The police should know.”

  “They know,” she said dully. Then the implication of what I’d said seemed to dawn on her, and for a flash she was the old Julie. “Surely you’re not suggesting that the police think I was connected with what went on in that room.” Her voice rose dangerously. “How could they? How could anybody believe that, if I had a choice, I’d let the world see my husband like that?”

  I touched her arm. “Julie, all I meant was that the police might need your signature for something.”

  “They can find me at my sister’s,” she said tightly. “She lives in Port Hope. The police have the address, and I’ve left it by the phone in my kitchen in case you need to get in touch with me. Everything’s taken care of.” Suddenly her composure cracked. “I don’t deserve this,” she said. “I did everything right, and I had such hopes.”

  As I watched her cab drive up my road towards the airport, I thought of Julie’s epitaph for her marriage. The words were heartbreaking, but tonight wasn’t the first time I’d heard her use them. Years before, I’d run into Julie outside our neighbourhood high school. It was late June, and she had just learned that her son, Mark, had failed every class in grade ten and the counsellor was recommending a non-academic program for him. She had been devastated. “He’s never going to do anything that matters,” she’d said, miserably. “And I don’t understand. I did everything right, and I had such hopes.” Then, having absolved herself of blame and purged herself of hope, Julie Evanson had closed the door on her only child forever.

  CHAPTER

  4

  When I woke up Saturday morning, the sun was shining, the sky looked freshly washed, the birds were singing, and the phone was ringing. I picked up the receiver, heard Jill Osiowy’s familiar contralto and felt my spirits rise.

  It wasn’t unusual for Jill to call on a Saturd
ay morning. She produced Nationtv’s political panel, and I was one of the regulars. The show was telecast live on Saturday nights, and if Jill spotted a provocative item in the morning paper, she’d often call to see how I felt about leading with it. But after my Stepford-wife crack the night before, I was anticipating a chill, and it was a relief to hear her sounding cordial.

  “Jo, are you up for a whole change of topic for the call-in segment tonight? It seems there’s been some major-league vandalism at the university.”

  “Where at the university?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been to the campus yet, but one of our technicians, Gerry McIntyre, was out there for his morning run, and he saw squad cars over by the Education building. When he went over to ask what was going on, the cops told him the place had been vandalized.”

  “Jill, I hate to shoot down a story idea, but a certain amount of vandalism is one of the rites of spring at any university. It’s ugly, but it doesn’t usually amount to much beyond kids getting drunk and deciding to leave their mark on the world. Last year some Engineering students decided they weren’t getting the respect they deserved, so they spray-painted ‘Engineers Rule’ on every blank wall they could find.”

  “This wasn’t quite that sophomoric. Gerry says it looks like a hate crime.”

  “A hate crime?” I repeated. “Who was the target?”

  “Homosexuals,” Jill said. “Apparently, the graffiti the vandals left behind is homophobic, and, Jo, the reason I think this particular vandalism may be worth talking about is that it’s not unique. I’ve been watching the wire services, and gay-bashing seems to be enjoying a certain cross-country vogue again. Anyway, what do you think about the change of topic?

  “My stomach is already churning at the thought of the phone-ins.”

  “We’ll screen the callers so we know everything about them but their blood type, and I’ll keep my finger on the cutoff button …”

  I laughed. “Okay. You’re on.”

  “You’re going to have to do some digging. There’ve been several rulings on sexual orientation lately, and you should have that stuff at your fingertips. Are you sure I’m not crowding you?”

  “I’m sure. I try to keep up on the major rulings that come out of the Charter, and I have a file folder stuffed with articles on gay and lesbian rights.”

  Jill laughed. “Still clipping newspapers. Jo, you’re a dinosaur.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I like the way newspapers feel in my hands. Anyway, don’t worry about giving me enough lead time. All I’ve got on today is taking Taylor to her class – oh, and feeding Julie’s fish. She’s going to her sister’s in Port Hope till this blows over.”

  “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” Jill said mildly.

  I laughed. “You know Julie. She’s never liked a mess.”

  “I guess she’s not alone in that,” Jill said. “See you tonight.”

  She sounded more like her usual self than she had in months, and I felt the relief wash over me. “Jill, I’m so glad you called. And Springtime for Homophobes is a great topic.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “but actually, it was Tom’s idea.”

  After I hung up, I pulled out the telephone book, checked the university’s listings, and dialled the number opposite the office of Physical Plant. I got a recorded message telling me when the regular office hours were and giving me a number to call if I deemed my concerns to be of an emergency nature. They weren’t, but I was curious. I looked at my watch. If I hurried, I could drive up to the campus and be back before the demands of Saturday morning made themselves felt.

  When I started for the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over my dresser and cringed. I’d slept in the clothes I’d greeted Julie in the night before. I was getting worse than Angus. I grabbed clean underwear and a fresh sweatshirt and jeans, then I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my face. As I began brushing my teeth, my mind drifted. The night before I had told Alex that Tom Kelsoe’s new celebrity was only part of the reason for my jealousy. Most of the reason, although I hated to admit it, was Jill.

  We had always been close. The day after she graduated from J school, she’d started working for my husband, Ian. He was the youngest attorney general in the history of our province, but he’d been in politics long enough to be both bemused and touched by Jill’s fervent idealism. After he died, Jill kept working for the government, but she said the spark was gone. She moved to Ottawa, did a graduate degree in journalism, and started working for Nationtv. When she came back to Saskatchewan, one of the first things she did was hire me for the political panel. I’d never thought of doing television, but Jill had faith and patience; she shepherded me through the gaffes and panics of the early days, and it had worked out. Personally and professionally, Jill and I were a nice mix. Her relationship with Tom Kelsoe had changed all that, but as I rinsed my toothbrush I decided that, even if it meant holding my nose and learning to love Tom Kelsoe, I was going to change it back.

  “Jo, look. I’ve started the drawings for my mural.”

  Taylor was standing in the bathroom door with her sketchpad under her arm.

  I put my toothbrush back in the cup. “Okay,” I said, “show me.”

  She pushed past me, flipped down the toilet seat and settled herself on top of it. After she had balanced her sketchpad on her knees, she began explaining. “Alex said nobody ever gets close enough to Nanabush to take his picture, but this is how I think he looks.”

  As Taylor’s index finger danced across her sketchpad, pointing out details, lingering over problems, I was struck again by the gulf between the little girl perched on the toilet seat, legs dangling, and the gifted artist who had made the pictures of Nanabush on the pages in front of me. At the age of six, Taylor’s talent was already undeniable. It was a question of nature not nurture. Taylor’s mother had been a brilliant artist, and Taylor had inherited the gift.

  When we’d looked at the last sketch, Taylor hopped off the toilet. “I’m hungry,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “You’ve already done a lot of work today. Why don’t I get you some juice and cereal. I have to go up to the university for a few minutes, but as soon as I get home, I’ll make pancakes.”

  When I put the dogs on their leashes and led them to the garage, they looked dubious, and when I opened the back gate of the Volvo our aging golden retriever, Rose, sat down defiantly. “Come on, Rosie,” I said. “Get in. We’ll have our run out at the bird sanctuary. The paper says the bluebirds are back. It’ll be an adventure.” She cocked her head and looked at me sceptically. I moved behind her and pushed her until she finally lumbered into the car. Sadie, our collie, who was beautiful but easily led, bounded in after her.

  By the time I pulled into the parking space at the university, the dogs had perked up, and they jumped out, eager to follow me, as I headed for the Education building. The red-white-and-blue police cars were still there, as was the vandals’ handiwork. The long glassed-in walkway that linked College West and the Lab building was dripping with all the ugly anti-gay invective the wielder of the spray-paint canister could think of. I was cheered to see that the vandal had crossed out the extra s that had initially been in “cock-sucker.” Maybe literacy was on the rise after all.

  The dogs and I walked towards the Education building. A young police officer with a blond braid was standing by a squad car making notes.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  Her look was noncommittal. “Everything’s under control,” she said coolly. “Why don’t you and your dogs finish your walk?”

  “I’m not rubbernecking,” I said. “I teach here.”

  “I hope for your sake that your office isn’t in this building.”

  “Can I go in?”

  “Not with your dogs.”

  I walked them back and put them in the car. First seduced and now abandoned, they began to bark, furious at the betrayal.

  When I
came back, the blond-braided police officer had been replaced by a young constable who looked as if he could bench-press two hundred kilograms without breaking a sweat. I flashed my faculty ID at him and said, “I teach here.”

  He waved me through. “Go ahead,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high and sweet as a choirboy’s. “Stay away from the areas marked by crime-scene tape, and if an officer asks you to leave, please obey.”

  I went into the building, turned left, and walked towards the cafeteria. It looked as it always did after hours: the accordion security gates were pulled across, the tables were wiped clean, and the chairs were stacked in piles against the far wall. Someone had suspended cutouts of Easter rabbits and of chicks in bonnets from the ceiling above the empty food-display cases, and by the cash register there was a sign announcing that Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs were back. Everything seemed reassuringly ordinary, but when I continued along the hall and pushed through the double doors that led to the audio-visual department of the School of Journalism, I stepped into chaos.

  I was ankle-deep in paper: computer printouts, dumped files, books with pages torn and spines splayed. The walls around me were spray-painted with the same snappy patter I’d seen on the walkway between College West and the Lab building. It was slow going, but finally I made it past the photography department and turned down the hall that led to the Journalism offices.

  As I walked towards Ed Mariani’s office, I was reassured to see that whoever had done the trashing was an equal-opportunity vandal. The offices of straight and gay alike were destroyed. Through open doors, I could see books and pictures heaped on desks, plants overturned, keyboards ripped from their terminals. On Ed’s door was a sign: “Of all life’s passions, the strongest is the need to edit another’s prose.” Beside it somebody had spray-painted the words “Fairy-Loving-Bum-Fucker.” I closed my eyes, but I could still see the words, and I knew Ed’s sign was right: at that moment, I hungered for a paint canister of my own and a chance to do a little judicious editing.